


Loathing

by Cookie_Enthusiast



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Debating, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jamilton - Freeform, M/M, Smut, Swearing, War, Wedding, book deals, i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-23 23:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cookie_Enthusiast/pseuds/Cookie_Enthusiast
Summary: Alexander Hamilton, Secretary Treasury, is battling affection for Thomas Jefferson very, very poorly.Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of State, is fighting the effort to stay level headed as his feelings grow.After Alexander is promoted things change. After agreeing to pretend they hadn’t nearly become something more, it eats them both alive. When things continue to evolve it’s almost terrifying, but not nearly as bad as the idea of feelings for their enemy.Sequel to Assisting!
Relationships: Aaron Burr/James Madison, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/Hercules Mulligan, John Laurens/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Maria Reynolds/Angelica Schuyler
Comments: 25
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

Secretary of the Treasury is a difficult job when you have pricks like the Secretary of State waving outrageous demands about with unreasonable budget and no realisation the world doesn’t revolve around you. Being Secretary of the Treasury is really very difficult, yes, when the Secretary of State has a stick up his ass (in the most normal way possible because Alex did not think about him like that ever. Not anymore.). So, it should come as no surprise, he’s bored out his wits and on the verge of screaming at Jefferson as he emphasises the need to start branching ‘out, to other countries, to absorb other smaller companies’ because the little bitch doesn’t know how much things cost in the real world. 

“Hamilton? Is there something you’d like to say?” Alex rubs his temples and stands from where he was sat at Washington’s side, shaking his head and sighing loudly once again, adjusting his jacket. (Promotion meant more money, more money meant a matching suit for the first time ever.) 

“Frankly, it’s a disgusting proposal. Absorbing other companies is difficult as it is and it costs a lot when these businesses are barely on their feet. There’s the issue of copyrighting and re-marketing and there isn’t the money unless you want to open your own wallet, Jefferson.” Jefferson pulls a face, like he always does at the thought of doing something helpful. “No? Exactly. So how about you sit down leave these things to people who understand?” Before that would have gotten a reaction, just a couple of months ago Jefferson would have snapped and throttled Alex and Alex would have LIKED it. What he didn’t like was how Jefferson had collected himself, cooled down, grown a fuse on his temper, and now he only smirks now at Alex with a slight and small shake of his head. 

“What else to think we should do? Try and take over penguin books over in England? Absorbing small and local businesses benefit us in the long run.” The cabinet mulled over what was being said, just waiting for one of them (normally Alex these days) to implode in an attempt at getting his point across. Besides, they wouldn’t agree with either of them until an explosion, which often proved or disproved something so clearly there was no arguing. 

It’s a bad day in the office when they don’t yell.

“No, I’m saying we need to calculate, be smart about this, and I understand you find that difficult, but if we take over a collapsing company there’s every chance we collapse too.” Jefferson bared his teeth, a small gesture, a ‘back off, Hamilton’ gesture but Alex doesn’t bow down to them anymore. “Before this proposal can even be considered signing you need two basic things. One, an actually stable plan, and two, a big as fuck donation from a rich guy. Once you have them, we can talk.” Alex folded his arms and sat down, listened to the murmuring agreements as Jefferson flexed his fingers and tried to collect his sanity. Washington mutters about not saying ‘fuck’ in a meeting for only the millionth time that week. 

“Gentlemen, please,” Washington lifts his head from his hands for the first time in two hours (he’s often rethinking putting arch enemies in the highest seats of power against each other). “Mr. Jefferson, your proposal is sound and in the long run does make sense.” Jefferson raises his chin like the self-entitled prick he is. “However, Mr. Hamilton’s points are realistic.” Alex rises his chin right back, watching Jefferson’s eyes harden from victory to bad loser and Washington looks between them both, sighing loudly to drag them from their own world. “So, after very little deliberation and a lot of regret, I’m gonna get you working together again. No arguments, either,” he says pointedly when both their sharp tongues arm themselves with good reasons not to work together. “We need a fundraiser and company to absorb by Friday, the fundraiser will then be the following Saturday so paperwork can be done Monday. Everyone understand?” 

“Sir, if I may, I’d rather shove a-“ 

“Lovely! Meeting adjourned.” Alex huffs, leans back in his chair as people file toward the door, Thomas gathering his notes into a magenta folder. “Alexander, how many times, I really don’t care what you’re willing to shove up your ass instead of working with Mr. Jefferson. My decision is final, son.” Alex mumbles ‘not your son’ begrudgingly as Washington watches him with that fondness. It had grown over the past months and Alex agreed Washington had developed into a kind of father figure he hadn’t expected to get. Still, being called son reminded him of a father that abandoned him, his mother, abandoned a life that was so blissful despite rough edges, a man Washington wasn’t. (Though he might have encouraged it, with the embarrassing amount of times he called Washington ‘dad’ by a slip of his witty tongue.) “Perhaps we can finally get you two onto decent terms again. You worked so well together when you were his assistant,” Washington remembers wistfully. A time when he didn’t want to bang his head off the wall every time the pair opened their mouth. 

But he didn’t know what had happened, didn’t know the feeling of being pressed against books, Jefferson’s tongue on his skin, thinking something was changing, something was happening. Washington didn’t know and he couldn’t ever. No one could. On good days both of the men involved could forget about it, too, but nothing could keep it at bay forever. 

“Yeah, listen to daddy, Hamilton. Perhaps you should be my assistant again, when you were useful.” Jefferson taunts, leaning against his desk. 

“Mr. Jefferson.” Washington warns. 

“Or perhaps when you were less of a prick.” 

“Boys-“ 

“Maybe you actually knew your fucking place.” 

“MY place? I did your job for you!” 

“You fucking wish you little weasel.” 

“Gentlemen!” Washington shouts, making Alex flinch and Jefferson stand up a little straighter. “If this continues you’re going to get handcuffed to each other until this is done. Learn to get along or face unemployment.” Jefferson scoffs, rolls his eyes, the stance of someone who would get hired by anyone, as Alexander blanched and nodded compliantly. Why is it every one of his employers cared for him but also were more than willing to fire his ass? He really needed to find a way to get someone in his pocket that wasn’t willing to turn him away. “What was that? I’m sure I heard two ‘yes sirs’?” 

“Yes sir,” they mutter, not looking at one another. 

Doors open, Peggy strolling in, yellow dress brushing against her knees, practically dancing and Alex feels a smile jump onto his face. She always walked in at the perfect time - when he and Jefferson were yelling too close, when he was getting his ass handed to him, when he was on the verge of tears - and now is really no exception as she comes and leans against his desk. She wasn’t normally in meetings anymore, her excuses growing more and more obscene to get out of four hours of Hamilton/Jefferson yelling. (She was the only one to get anyway with it, too.) 

“Alex, darling, Lafayette says your best man suit isn’t going to pick itself up. Did you check the tie matched my dress?” She asks, pulling her skirt up and curtsying with a soft smile. “Oh, Jefferson he says they sent yours to your place.” Peggy waves it away, watching Alex with a smile. 

“No, my tie doesn’t match your dress, Peggy. Lafayette chose the colour and I don’t even know what it is.” She laughed, shaking her head. Hair bounces around her shoulders and Alex cannot identify why she is still single. 

“But you are ready for this Saturday?” 

“It’s not until next month, Peggy,” Alex says with a sigh, not in a joking mood, watching Jefferson shake his head with that bemused twinkle that used to make Alex feel special. “Right?” 

“Alex, please be joking.” She looks unimpressed. “You’re a best man, ‘Lex, I’m pretty sure it’s against the rules to forget.” 

Alexander Hamilton denies responsibility to remembering - he hadn’t exactly gotten an invitation to stick onto the fridge to remember daily that his friends were getting close to eternal happiness. Or maybe he had, but he probably got drunk and shredded it, blubbering about forever loneliness and that no one loved him. (Not strictly true, his friends would argue, but he wasn’t talking about their endless platonic love.) It wasn’t like he had a lot of stuff to do - John had planned all the parties and gotten everything moving as Alex stood awkwardly in the corner, nodding and sipping. Everything kept spinning, the wedding stages moved from planning to planned and waiting to ready, as he stood still and watched from afar as Lafayette and Thomas discussed how to realistically incorporate American and French culture as men from both backgrounds. Besides, he had been quite occupied by Jefferson trying to throw him under every bus that drove by. 

“I didn’t... forget. I misplaced the information. Found it again, see.” No one laughs because it’s a shitty joke, but Alex is still a little wounded. 

“At least have your speech done. I’m begging, Alex. I’d get on my knees if this dress wasn’t stunning.” But there was no lying to Peggy and this was growing more humiliating with every second Jefferson hung around for the answer. So he leads her out the door, hand on the small of her back, both of them comfortable in their relationship, with one backward glance. Cocky smirk on a smug face is enough to want to make him want to run back and choke slam him right there in front of Peggy and Washington. 

Losing his job would be so worth it. 

Peggy seems to sense the shift and pushes him out instead, sending a wide smile backward, looking all perfect and innocent. He really would be out of a job if he didn’t have her. 

“If I killed him do you think I’d be fired?” Alex asks, leant back in Peggy’s office on the lone chair that sits in front of her desk. She swivels her spinning chair thoughtfully, hair fanned out around her. 

“Think you’d go to jail.” 

“Yeah, I don’t care about that, would I still be in a job. I can budget behind bars, surely.” 

“No books in prison, ‘Lex.” Alex shuddered (no books!?). 

“That’s enough to put anyone off murder.” Peggy laughed at his absurdity, propping her feet up, shoes abandoned on the floor - stiletto heels that she constantly complains kill her feet. (Alex had asked why she wore them, once, and nearly combusted at the glare he received.) “Monday drinks?” 

“We’re gonna become alcoholics, Alex.”

“Anything to put up with Jefferson’s stupid face and perfect voice. Jesus Christ, you know when he gets real mad he goes all southerner?” 

“Does he?” 

“Yeah. It’s crazy, one moment he’s this New Yorker with a slight twang then his voice is literal syrup.” He cannot keep the dreamy tone from his voice (that accent had always done things to his knees). 

“Thought you were over him?” 

Alex glared at Peggy. She was the only person Alexander had told about what happened the day he thought he was losing his job, about the few moments things had been so clear. One drunken night, Peggy crying about how perfect Lafayette was and how she couldn’t believe he was getting married and, ‘goodness, look at him, Alex, why can’t he marry me?’ Before deciding he wasn’t worth the tears and flirting with the bartender who had witnessed everything and was kind, a good guy with morals. Then she had started prying into Alex’s love life. So, banging a shot down, he confessed the moment that was so fleeting and so perfect, watching Peggy nod and shove peanuts into her mouth, encouraging him to go on. (She had a thing for eating Alex’s stress for him.) Eventually he had started crying too, about how stupid and perfect Jefferson was, how badly he wanted to kiss him and burn ramen for him in Jefferson’s stupid apartment. Though she never quotes those cute, domestic wishes, more often than not reminding him of how he sobbed and muttered ‘just wanna choke on his dick, is that so bad, Peggy?’ Still, the next morning they created a pact to move along in their life - which Peggy had, while Alexander had not. 

“I am. Swear on it.” Peggy knew he was lying but ignored it, knowing it would take more than her pushing to reduce what had and could have been from wrecking Alex’s mind. “Not my fault he’s hot.” She agreed, everyone agreed Jefferson was hot as the sun, which always made Alex’s stomach tighten with jealousy that they were looking, as if he had any claim to Jefferson. (Which he didn’t and never had.) 

“Look, wedding this Saturday. Lots of singles that are depressed as you are about being lonely, you can have your pick of the men and women. You’re stunning, ‘Lex, Jefferson doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Alex shrugged, supposing she was right, despite his incredibly awful body image and insecurity. (He had enough of that to run a company, or a crazy dysfunctional guy - which they did.)

Maybe she was right - Jefferson didn’t have a clue. 

————————————

Being Secretary of State is interesting, to say the least. 

His seven languages all come into frequent use as Washington pushes him into frequent meetings with foreigners who want to donate or form an alliance, he’s even learning an eighth. (Despite hating every single one of those awkward coffee and biscuit encounters.) Meetings are the last thing on his mind most days - they hardly involve Hamilton anymore, both of them head of opposite areas, but it’s the ones that do that intrigue him. Intrigue isn’t the right word, no, it makes him sit up straighter and actually listen just to contradict. Despite it being difficult, with them both at Washington’s side, knowing every time he called Hamilton out put him a little bit more at risk of losing his job but also not giving a damn. Every time he managed to get Hamilton to yell was a victory. 

Whole PowerPoint’s were discarded for Hamilton rants that lasted actual hours, thanks to a few choice words from Thomas. One time he spent three hours ranting about coffee, for goodness sake, he was like a child’s wind-up toy that you had no idea how hard you’d wound up and just had to wait until the key stopped ticking around. 

“Mr. Jefferson?” Washington pulls him out of thought as he’s reaching for the door handle. 

“Yes, sir?”  


“As the level-headed one of you, please, no more yelling. I don’t care if it’s Alex,” god, the day Washington started calling Hamilton ‘Alex’ was the same day he had known the little man could not get more detestable. “You provoke him, everyone knows that, and I can’t keep having this. One of you will have to go.” Thomas knew it would be him. Didn’t have to think about it too hard, or at all, everyone could see Hamilton had all the right people dangling on strings, including Washington. “Are we very clearly understood?” 

“Crystal.” He nods, notes pressed against his chest, stepping into the buzzing office as people went out for lunch. An intern crashed into him, barely muttering Sorry before dashing off to a friend, chattering away. There was a time before Hamilton that an intern would cry at upsetting Thomas Jefferson, wouldn’t dare to get into his way let alone bump into him. Thomas sighs, trying to manoeuvre through the chaos of hungry people, finding James’ face among it all, being pulled elsewhere. 

His office door shuts onto Thomas’ face. 

“James, really- Jesus Christ!” Thomas cringes away from the sight of James and Burr shoving their tongues down each other’s throat, wishing he had been able to see who had been dragging his best friend around. “Third time this month, guys. The third! At least you’re dressed this time.” Thomas dropped onto the couch, watching James and Burr flush and look at each other, Burr in a ‘get rid of him’ way and James in an ‘apologies for this, again, Thomas’ way. “Some meeting, huh?” 

“I’m not being a messenger boy so don’t have to work with him, Thomas.” 

“What! Oh, come on James, I do loads for you! Just this one tiny thing?” 

“No. We tried that before, remember?” 

Thomas did remember. They’d sent James running back and forth between their offices, at first with messages about the work, the system working quite well. Until James came back and said something, and Thomas knew how Hamilton would have said it, could imagine the tone and sent back a colourful message. James came back red in the face, mumbling. Thomas had rolled his eyes and told him to speak up, so James had told him, quite clearly, ‘suck my fat dick, Jefferson, love Hamilton’. He’d nearly burst a blood vessel, practically ran out Hamilton’s office and demanded he took that back, saying he had wounded James’ innocence which is when Hamilton, straight faced, told Thomas about walking in on Burr and Madison fucking in the bathroom. These things don’t leave you. 

“Yes, but this time will be different, James.”

“Yes it will. I won’t do it.” Thomas groaned loudly as Burr nodded, agreeing with James quietly in case his mind was swayed. The door pops open, Hamilton pops his face in soon after, checking for decency, before swaggering in. “Oh, fuck off Hamilton.” Thomas is really not in the mood for Hamilton looking for a fight when there is plenty to come. 

“Shut your trap, Jefferson. I’m here for a stapler not you.” Which hurts more than if Hamilton was here for an argument. “Madison?” Hamilton has always been nicer to James, always had a higher tolerance (James said it was because he was nice but Thomas doesn’t listen), smiling a friendly smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have a stapler I could borrow?” 

“Say no, James, I beg. Be petty for once in your life.” If he was anyone else he would have gotten his knees and it would have been hilarious. (But he wasn’t getting on his knees in front of Hamilton, in this suit.) 

“Right here, Hamilton. Have a lovely afternoon.” 

“You too, Madison. Burr.” They share a nod of agreement (a peace between barely acquaintances) and Hamilton throws open the door. 

“Hamilton, out of curiosity, you haven’t finished that speech have you?” The look on Hamilton’s face says he hasn’t even started it. 

“O-of course I have!” He whips out, the door slams, and James looks at him as if he’s the unreasonable one. 

“What? That’s a wedding I’m going to, James. I deserve to know if it’s going to be a train wreck, don’t I?” 

“You know what? We are all going out tonight and Thomas, you’re going to learn Hamilton is a human being for the sake of us all.” 

“For fucks sake...” Burr and Thomas mutter at the same time. It’s the first time they’ve ever agreed and Madison doesn’t even get to celebrate it as he pushes Thomas out so he can have sex with his perfect and annoying little boyfriend. 

Disgusting. 

He wants it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: pls read Assisting first for context

“All is forgiven baby, come on, get dressed, you’re my date to the pep rally tonight!” Thomas wants to puke as James drags him and Burr into the badly-lit club, a stage with average people stood on it, singing about bombing a school. Mildly concerning, he thinks, as James drags them across the sticky floor toward an empty booth, pushing Burr to sit. It’s tacky, some middle-of-nowhere diner-red seats and has more than a few questionable stains. Thomas tries to follow suit but James keeps him on his feet, points across the room where Hamilton is laughing and joking with his friends, probably drunk off his face. Thomas is reminded of a time when Hamilton was his assistant and he’d followed both Hamilton and little John Laurens into the bathroom for no sane reason. 

His heart beats faster. 

“You’re going to spend the night in the same room, just to prove you can, okay? Now someone please get me some booze.” As James went to the bar Thomas went to the booth Burr was sat in, watching the yelling people on stage. He was another song away from his ears committing suicide. 

“This is one of his worst ideas ever.” Burr says, in complete confidence. (Which was really new.) “Just ignore Hamilton. James needs a win.” (If this is what he had resorted to, Thomas definitely agreed.) James returns with three drinks, a shot for Thomas a glass of Burr’s usual (the only one he’d be allowed as the driver) and something Thomas didn’t recognise for himself. Some fancy cocktail James probably drinks on the regular, with stupid old Burr while Thomas ‘sulked’ about Hamilton. 

“Please Alex!” They all look over to where Elizabeth is holding onto his sleeve, trying to drag him on stage. “You promised!” Alex is fighting back, trying to return to the table and the other friends. Really looking like he’d rather be anywhere doing anything else, but not, all at once. A face of contradictions. 

“It’s too Monday for this shit.” Thomas sighs, downing the shot and waving at a waitress for another, watching Hamilton fight the grip. Needing a lot more alcohol in his system to survive a night of Hamilton and co.

“No, no, ‘Liza, too drunk-“ Hamilton pleads, fighting to return to his seat, to return to his drink. “Please, ‘Liza, shit day.” Thomas agrees, quite wholly.

“‘Thomas Jefferson and his perfect face!’” His friends recite instantly, making James look pointedly as Thomas, this ‘I’m so fucking right’ look on his face that Thomas wishes he could wipe away as his cheeks flush. Why did Hamilton always have to go and prove everyone right except Thomas? Except, Hamilton didn’t know Thomas was there, didn’t know he was proving a point, could only blush as his friends chorused around him. It wasn’t to tease Thomas. It was to tease HAMILTON. “Go, Alex,” Laurens starts pushing, Hamilton’s alcohol-weak legs nothing against the pressure, especially when Lafayette and Angelica join in on it. “It’s not like Jeffershit is here.” Which makes the fight die, Hamilton even seems to walk willingly to where Elizabeth was flipping through a book. Did he really care what Thomas thought that much? Elizabeth hands out microphones and Thomas shudders to himself. Fucking karaoke.

Thomas cannot express how much he hates karaoke in words (prefers using a chair over the head) but seeing the smile on Hamilton’s face melts that away. Martha had had that kind of effect. All his friends pile on stage, one microphone between two and they are all so drunk, you can tell so obviously. Yet, they look so happy. 

Hamilton looks... happy. 

“Follow my lead, and yes, indeed, you will be popular. You’re gonna be popular, I’ll teach you the proper poise when you talk to boys.” Elizabeth begins, cozying up against Hamilton and he rolls his eyes. “Little ways to flirt and flounce.” She flicks her hair, looks over at John with a wink. Thomas looks away, listening to them trade who’s singing, turning to James with pleading eyes. Hamilton wasn’t even doing anything, either. Being sung at instead of singing with. 

“Please don’t make me stay.” 

“Think we should do a song next, yeah?” James teased, running his finger over the rim of his glass (a stupid habit picked up from Burr), watching Thomas with an ‘admit it, he’s not devil spawn he’s human’ look. 

“I’d rather shove a cellphone tower up my ass.” (Hamilton had said that once, when Thomas had asked for an extra grand for something stupid. It had shocked him into silence which caused too much satisfaction to appear in Hamilton’s smug, stupidly kissable, face.)

“How eloquent.” Burr mutters, rolling his eyes. 

“Don’t be offended by my frank analysis! Think of it as personality dialysis.” Lafayette always did have a sort-of voice around him. Hamilton pulls a ‘kill me’ face and he’d be dead much sooner if Thomas had his way, thrown out his goddamn window when he was mouthing off, he frankly couldn’t care as the repetitive tune kept going. 

“Here you are sir,” the waitress placed the shot down, taking the empty glass with a meaningless smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “Who’s tab is this on?” 

“Jefferson.” James tells her instantly and before Thomas can argue she walks away and Thomas glares at James. 

“Not paying.” 

“Yes you are.” 

“When I see depressing creatures with unprepossessing features.” They sing in unison over the tune and the whole thing is all tingly. Jesus Christ, Hamilton’s vocal chords could do something other than scream at Thomas? He was impressed. “Popular,” they harmonise. 

“Celebrated head of states or specialty great communicators - did they have brains or knowledge?” Hamilton plays along and Thomas is caught between wanting to puke and thinking its kind of cute. “Don’t make me laugh! They were popular!” Or perhaps crack his skull in half. That would be beautiful. And he’d be quiet popular around the office, too. 

Thomas will be the last to openly admit the majority of the office disliking Hamilton isn’t amazing. In fact, it gets quite tiring. When saying ‘good morning’ to Hamilton was always met with a biting insult because he had grown walls out of nowhere, the coffee boy gone, replaced with someone used to hate. Thomas hated to be on the giving end, sometimes, with the way Hamilton had grown so used to receiving, but he also knew Hamilton would rather puke than receive niceties from him. (And Thomas felt the exact same.) 

“And though you protest your disinterest, I know clandestinely. You’re gonna grin and bare it, your newfound popularity.” Elizabeth rubs his shoulders as she sings it, and they all look quite proud of themselves, joking and poking Hamilton, calling him out on what they were calling a ‘crush’. 

“Maybe you should sing, Thomas.” The teasing tone has dropped away as they stumble back down the stairs to their table. 

“I’d rather die.” He responds, looking down at his glass, disappointed to find it empty. 

“Go say hi at the very least. He’s making a fool of himself.” Was that really pity in James’ stupid eyes? It was his fault they were here, a place where Hamilton was comfortable to just simply be without repercussions. Or so he thought. The other guys are up there again, singing the same song. (Losers.)

Thomas gets up, cannot stand the look he’s being given, and begins to approach the group as they gush and chatter drunkenly like group of college idiots. Except, Hamilton looks so HAPPY. So at ease. Who was he to break this up, ruin a fine evening, through his presence, make Hamilton embarrassed and upset? God, he couldn’t even imagine what being Hamilton was like most days, the constant backlash of every word and action. This would make it worse. So, he starts backing up, slowly, not retreating really, tactical movements, something that will eventually give him the upper hand. (Except, no blackmail, because he definitely was not that kind of businessman.) 

Until Hamilton raises his face, mid-laugh, and their eyes crash against each other and they’re back in that bar, the dim lights, staring at each other without knowledge of what would happen, what they’d give up. Still so naive. Thomas’ stomach tightens at the memory of calling Hamilton a ‘cock tease’, arousal he normally contained so well showing it’s ugly head. 

“I was meant to be yours, we were meant to be one, don’t give up on my now, finish what we begun...” 

It was like watching it from somewhere else, the way the happiness drips away, Hamilton pushing his friends out the way, moving through the bodies to approach him. Like something out of a film, something unreal, something beyond comprehension, his pained face. As if Thomas had stabbed him in the heart, sliced him open, and he didn’t even know how. 

“We were meant to be one, I can’t take it alone, finish what we begun. You were meant to be mine, I am all that you need. You carved open my heart, can’t just leave me to bleed...” 

That face he’d seen twisted in so many expressions, but never this one, never this shocked pain, as if this was all too much for him. Too much to bear. 

“Please don’t leave me alone... you were all I could trust... I can’t do this alone...” 

It’s John that notices first, Hamilton’s shift, his face (god, what had Thomas done to deserve that look for so long?) and follow his line of sight. Harden, face set in anger, eyes that had been full of laughter chilling over like a brand new ice age. A chain reaction, what happens next, the group a set of dominoes collapsing their carefree nature and propping up stands of spite. All except Hamilton, who tilts his face, who watches Thomas as if he’s something he knows but is out of place. 

“I-“ he clears his throat, fiddles with a cuff before remembering who he was - Thomas bloody Jefferson! - and acts it. “Hello, Hamilton.” Cold, calculated, flicking a piece of imaginary dirt off his cuff. 

“Jefferson. This doesn’t seem your scene.” There is no smile with the playful tone and it hurts. 

“Date night,” he motions over at the booth where he knows Burr and James are exchanging tongues. Hamilton smiles, in understanding, not knowing the lie as it passed between them and lapsed into silence. (Thomas doesn’t know why it makes him feel bad.) 

“What brings you over to us? Got a noise complaint, grandpa?” 

“We’re practically the same age!” 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” and Hamilton winks, ever the confident drunk, flicking his hair over his shoulder to turn back to a conversation that was long gone. “Guys, this is my colleague, Thomas Jefferson.” Colleague, so cold, so distant, for something that felt everything but. 

“We know,” is the general return grumble.

Thomas cannot help wondering how much Hamilton talks about him, it had become an outside joke when Hamilton was picked up by friends to joke and prod about ‘darling Thomas Jefferson’ but he had felt more mocked than Hamilton. Was it meant to be the other way around? He couldn’t fathom Hamilton having feelings for him, despite everything that had happened before (that was before, end of) and needed confirmation from the caffeine-gremlin himself. What would Martha say? If he had waited for her to admit any feelings he’d have waited his whole life through, would never have known the woman he had so much love for, but Hamilton was different. Hamilton was vocal, didn’t hold back, had proved that only a million times. Martha had been more reserved, or perhaps he had been carefree in youth, so sure she’d feel the same. 

“Jefferson, my friends.” He motions at them in one motion, catches Thomas’ eye again, this bemused light there, accompanied by a smirk. 

Finally, a smile, that lights Thomas up inside. 

————————————

So, the ‘invention’ of Monday drinks wasn’t Alex’s best moment. Certainly not at some middle-of-nowhere karaoke place that was always a little TOO sticky and a little TOO tacky (a little too musical-heavy) that made his stomach churn. He preferred the standard places, where the music was the same as a hangover and you didn’t get the chance to be self conscious when you brushed against someone attractive because you brush against everyone just by breathing. But, they still met here every day Alex blasted the group chat about his shitty day because he had friends who cared. They sat around laughing at themselves as people who thought they could sing screeched, everything feel into place like a perfect puzzle. It made him feel normal, reminded him he didn’t always have to be the Secretary Treasury. 

And, until today, it had been a good place to let all that go. 

Trust Jefferson to ruin all of that. 

Alex wants to punch whoever told Thomas it was okay to come over here, and also said it was okay to stay. Who did they think they were? Who did Jefferson think he was? His snobby ass had no right to Monday drinks, (unless they were ominous in his office) especially in a place like this. (Looks like they’d be changing the drinking spot again.) But that doesn’t stop something inside him singing, despite the screaming in his head, it all slotted together too well, looked too good, Jefferson and his friends. Except, of course, they all had the sense to glare and not involve him, where Alex was all but draped across him and babbling nonsense about the fundraiser. 

“So, so streamers!” He announces for the third time, hopping onto the stool next to Jefferson to return to his drink after his embarrassing charade-portrayal of streamers, taking deep gulps. Jefferson watches in amusement, hands elegantly folded over his knee, watching Alex drink and sigh. “Streamers?” Alex continues to prompt. Jefferson, considerably less drunk, and therefore lost on the hilarity, pulls a face. 

“Um, yes?” 

“Knew it! Streamers!” Even though the small part of his brain that was sober knew he had no plan of having streamers at this fundraiser. Or any function, ever, actually (they were boring and predictable) he’s obsessed right now, next to Jefferson, their knees pressed against each other. It felt good. And he hated that. “John, John, streamers!” And John, just as drunk as Alex, burst into laughter, nudging Eliza to repeat ‘streamers’ until they were all laughing over something that wasn’t funny. 

“Why streamers?” Jefferson asks, in that outside person way. Alex shook his head, as if he pitied him, placing a hand to his (very firm) bicep, pulling that ‘if you know you know’ face and watching Jefferson just smile. 

“Why not streamers?” 

“Whatever, Hamilton.” He glanced across the room and Alex followed his eyes to where Madison and Burr very indiscreetly looked away as if they hadn’t been staring the whole time (they had). “For fucks sake,” Jefferson mutters and Alex gets a view of his perfect side profile, the sharp line of his jaw, and something in him melts. “Someone should tell them they look like stalkers.” 

“Yeah, very, stalker-ish.” He agrees openly. Watches the clench and unclench of Thomas’ jaw. Until he turns, probably to insult Alex, but he doesn’t, just reaches out very slowly with his thumb, rubbing the corner of Alex’s mouth. Electricity shoots through his body when their skin meets and the soft rubbing doesn’t help and all too soon Thomas has pulled away. 

“You had...” but he doesn’t finish, just smiles, vaguely. 

Don’t ask how that meant they ended up in the bathroom, Alex pressed against the tile, Thomas’ lips pressing open mouthed kisses to his sensitive neck, (streamers definitely forgotten) like it was the most normal thing ever. Teeth scrape down the tingling skin and Alex whimpers in agreement, brain comparing this to bookshelves and a clean office without any real reason why. Except, this was definitely a bad case of deja vu. Why wouldn’t Thomas just let him kiss those stupid lips of his? 

“Remember this?” Thomas teases, pulling his shirt free from where it was tucked in, those warm fingers pressing against his fast rising and falling chest. Alcohol (or maybe Thomas’ touch) has him melting into the wall without fight despite knowing it’s Thomas Jefferson (his arch goddamn enemy). “Miss this?” Alex nods without even meaning to, making a noise of disagreement at the same time and Thomas laughs low and gentle at the contradiction, and those fucking fingers... 

“Fuck. You.” He hisses through his teeth. Because if he doesn’t then he’ll be giving in to the fuzzy feeling in the corner of his mind. 

“That’s not very nice, Alexander.” Thomas trails his fingers down Alex’s side, watching him squirm to try not to burst into laughter. “Play nice.” 

“S-stop, stop Jesus,” Alex presses his forehead to the cold, disgusting tile, the warmth and smell of Thomas swallowing him, as if nothing else mattered. They weren’t enemies, they were strangers to one another, strangers... Thomas pressed his grin to Alex’s jaw, and feelings (ew) swarm in his stomach as if this was something more than it was (which it wasn’t) as Thomas’ grip on his hips tightens. There will be bruises and that should make him mad, something like that, expect it doesn’t. “Fuck, Thomas-“ Would he even remember this, this feeling? Pressing and teasing? Did he want to? 

“Yes?” The bastard asks, those teasing fingers moving down to where Alex’s jeans were sat snugly against his hips. “Darlin’?” Chills dance up Alex’s spine and he hates himself for loving this so, so much. 

The door opens with a loud scream (they should really oil those hinges jeez) and Thomas jumps away from Alex as if he’s burned him. Shame burns across Alex’s face, shame that he’s let this happen (again) and that Thomas would rather be caught doing anything but being with him. Lafayette is stood blinking in the doorway, looking confused and blind drunk, squinting at the two guilty parties until Hercules catches up with him. There’s an apology on his face until he sees who is in there, frowning at Alex and mouthing ‘you okay’ in the exact opposite way of discreet. Alex nodded, swallowing, hoping he didn’t look as disheveled as he felt. (Was he cursed to never get laid in a bathroom? And was that a curse or blessing? This place was disgusting.) Jefferson stumbles toward the sink and Alex is so glad they’re drunk because if he or Jefferson had been sober this would be a whole other story. 

Imagine this, on purpose, with everything that had changed. 

The people they had become. 

“Wow,” Alex says, washing his hands and splashing cold water in his face as if that could wash everything away. Thomas mutters something that sounds like ‘how apt’. “What’re we gonna do?” 

“What we’re best at. Ignoring it.” Jefferson nods to himself, then to Alex, both of them watching the other with wide eyes. “That’s good, isn’t it?” Except that couldn’t be good, or healthy, or those other things Eliza and Peggy raved about when he fell into the spell that was Thomas Jefferson. 

‘Don’t ignore it’ they said ‘it’ll make you feel worse, talk about it, be rational’. (Could you imagine? Thomas being rational?) 

“Hope so. Will this make work awkward?”

“I’m resigning in two weeks anyway...” Jefferson checks himself in the mirror as if there’s anything to check (Alexander couldn’t get his hands on him if he wanted to) and finds himself satisfied. 

“You’re WHAT!” Alex shrieks. Voice giving away the swirl of emotions that consume him inside and out. 

“Resigning. If we keep fighting I’m gonna be fired anyway. Thought you’d be happy?” No! No, god, no.... But Alex can’t get the word into his mouth before Jefferson pushes open the door, both of them wincing at the loud squeal. “See you tomorrow Hamilton.” He disappears into the flashing lights and Alex is trying to digest what he’s been told. In response, his stomach knots up, and he falls into the nearest stall, puking. 

He blames it wholly on Jefferson. 

————————————

“You were gone a long time.” James notes as Thomas sits back down, eyes across the room where Hamilton is leaving the bathroom, obviously shaken. A smirk flicks onto his face, the unshakable Alexander Hamilton looking as if an earthquake had struck his tiny universe. Only he could do that. “Thomas?” 

“Yeah, sorry, bathroom,” he waves a hand dismissively as Hamilton stumbles over to where his friends are chattering, looking more drunk than when he had gone into the bathroom, and James raises an eyebrow.

“Thomas, you don’t spend ten minutes in the bathroom with Hamilton ever. Not sane and sober, and I can tell you are at least one.” James kicked him under the table, bringing his attention to the table (sticky, metal, gross) and the pair across from him. “Are you even listening to me? What’s going on?” 

“Nothing is going on. Why do you assume something is going on?” James gives him a sceptical look, knowing him too well, but says nothing as Burr comes back with a round of drinks for the best friends. 

“I just need you to be sure, Thomas. Okay?” 

“Okay, dad,” he rolls his eyes and runs his finger over the rim of his glass as Hamilton’s breathless ‘Thomas’ echoes over and over inside his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii!  
> Please leave feedback I live for it. I literally wrote and rewrote this chapter one million times no lie so if it’s bad I’m so sorry.  
> Have a good day!


	3. Chapter 3

Perhaps six times in one day is overkill.

God be damned, though, if every time Alexander storms into Jefferson’s office to yell at him over a minor inconvenience does his body react to the smirk. Something that a month ago would have him fantasising over throwing the bastard out the nearest window had suddenly taken a dark twist. Jefferson’s new assistant - some basic boy called Zach - stands every time he comes storming down the corridor, stumbling and stuttering over his words. ‘Mr. Jefferson doesn’t want to see anyone-‘ but at that point Alex had often already stormed in, hands at his hips, spitting venom at the bloody smirker who didn’t seem to give a shit. With every ‘whatever, Hamilton’ his anger spreads, warming his blood, giving him a headache, so that by lunchtime he’s sat with his head in his hands wondering how he got here. 

Months ago, when Washington hired him, he’d had this disgusted awe of Jefferson, they had gotten along so basically and perfectly that it didn’t matter. Everything slotted into place and he had grown used to just being Jefferson’s assistant, it felt normal, good normal, despite their hate. (Or perhaps because of their hate.) Now he held power in his grasp it felt as though things had changed right under his nose, he had gone from relatable little coffee boy to someone people openly avoided. If he cared (which he didn’t) that would wound him, that his own colleagues would rather flee than talk to him about the finances. When he had been promoted all he could think was ‘suck it, Adams’ but now? Turning down a hundred proposals a month because no one here had learned about ‘budgeting’? Almost made him miss being Jefferson’s glorified intern. (Though servant was a better description.)

Almost. 

“Advil, water and a sandwich.” Peggy announces, putting them all in a row in front of Alex where he was slumped at his desk. “I don’t know if this is hangover or because of human headache a couple doors down but it’s bound to help.” Words couldn’t express how good it was to have Peggy back in his life, being her, except she seemed so much more than an ‘and Peggy’ around here. (Colleagues practically worshipped the ground she walked upon and Alex was on the receiving end of a lot of awkward jealousy.)

“You’re an angel,” he murmurs, raising his eyes to where she was stood, leant casually against his desk. 

“Anything to have the Secretary of the Treasury in my pocket,” she winked and Alex rolled his eyes despite knowing she had plenty of sway on his decisions. He’d royally pissed Jefferson off two months ago when Peggy stepped forward to ask for extra money in marketing to help them branch out. Over around the course of a month Jefferson had went from telling to begging Alexander over funds for something and other without success. Perhaps he had some right to be pissed as fuck when Alex smiled at Peggy and said he could squeeze it in when Jefferson had been fighting tooth and nail for those exact funds. It was funny, though, to see the steam pour out his ears and his face turn an ungodly red, poor pencil snapping in his hand. (It had also been quite awkwardly hot.)

“Oh, piss off. People hear you talking like that and they’ll call for my removal.” He shudders, swallowing the pill around a mouthful of water. 

“They already call for your removal. They don’t like you, you know.” 

“What gave you THAT impression?” Alex asks, unimpressed, taking a large bite out of the cheese sandwich, stomach cheering in agreement with the choice. Peggy tilted her head at him (she really was quite pretty) and shook her head as if trying to understand him. They both knew any attempts at THAT were fruitless. “I don’t need them to like me. I practically run this place.” She shrugged and looked thoughtful, swinging her legs like a schoolgirl as Alex swallowed. 

Alex was not shocked people thought he and Peggy were dating, looking at her like this, knew he was smiling with fondness. Comfort was spread between them, something that people envied, that meant they didn’t care how they acted or what people thought. They just were. Okay, so the rumours (were they really rumours if they were true?) they kissed may be adding, but it had been funny, like a spin the bottle dare and he didn’t see why people thought it as anything else. (Which was a lie, but he couldn’t fathom the idea of being with her like that.) HR had approached them both a number of times with raised eyebrows and questions but they could only deny in truth. 

“Word around the office is you have to work with Jeffershit on his goddamn proposal,” she finally states, glancing at Alex to gauge his painfully predictable reaction of banging his head off his desk. (Despite being told a hundred times it really wasn’t good for him.)

“Peggy,” he hesitates (perhaps it was private but, then again, nothing was private with him from Peggy), “Jefferson told me he’s going to resign once we finish this, actually.” If it had been anyone else they wouldn’t have waited to see Alex’s face and just started celebrating for him. Peggy, however, watches him closely and decides to sigh instead. 

“You don’t want him to?” She asks, but it’s not really a question.

“If he leaves who am I meant to argue with, Peggy? Everyone else just bows down to me so that I’ll fund their stupid ideas. With Jeffershit around at least they fight back with him.” Through his promotion he learned he could nearly anyone to lick his boots if he asked them too, too scared of Alex’s new power to fight back. The only person who never bowed down was Jefferson, who had been there all along, watched him wear his new power like a kid in dress up, truly KNEW Alexander. (Of course there was Angelica and Peggy, too, but he didn’t often count them.)

“So this is nothing to do with your dick?” She asks in that stupid knowing voice and Alex blushes. “What! No!” Alex makes a string of horrified, offended noises, cannot believe Peggy thinks he’d compromise his work for petty attraction. (Scared she knows about their bathroom encounter.) Then she laughs and he knows she got what she wanted. 

“Joking, ‘Lex, come on, don’t be like that. Believe me, no one wants Jefferson to leave us alone to deal with you.” She nudges him playfully. “Now off of the Jefferson topic - the speech, Alexander Hamilton, tell me you’ve done the speech.” Guilt pools up into his stomach at the mere thought of that stupid, stupid, stupid speech. (He kept meaning to, of course he did, he just couldn’t find the time.) He was going to let Lafayette down and then what was he going to do with himself, lonely and sad? It didn’t help people kept reminding him of how bad he was going to feel. “God, Alex, you know Lafayette is going to freak, right?” 

Alex did know that. 

Had known that every time he put it off to do something else. 

“Well, we aren’t going to tell Laf, are we, Peggy?” He says it very pointedly, watching Peggy weigh her options (both were awful and ended the same) and point her toes, black tights stretched against her slim legs. “Come on, I promise to get it done. I have until Saturday, don’t I?” 

“John had his done in the first month, Alex...” (he was sick and tired of everyone preaching John’s praises.) 

“I’m not John, Peggy.” His voice is tighter than he means it to be. “Come on. We can tell Lafayette if I still don’t have one by Thursday, okay? If we tell Lafayette now he’ll write it for me. At least if we wait I could, I dunno, improvise?” Peggy pulled a face (a three hour wedding speech from Alexander sounded bad even in theory) and jumped off the desk, slipping her flats back on. Checking her small watch (some birthday gift, Alex thinks). 

“I have a meeting, ‘Lex. Start that goddamn speech or I’ll break your hand in two so you can’t.” Alex raised his hands as if held at gunpoint, which satisfied Peggy enough for her to leave for that meeting and Alex drops his hand as she drops out of sight. He couldn’t write this speech. 

One hundred and two (he’d counted) drafts had gone into the bin as he tried to express in words how happy he was for them, how special these things were. Not writing it at all was better than stumbling over his words, hands sweaty, trying to read his speech from cards. Lafayette was going to be disappointed no matter what he did, the Frenchman had planned the perfect wedding, was so excited for a ‘how you say, happily ever and after’. Alex couldn’t ruin that with his speech. He’d feel awful, until the end of time, it would be like outing John all over again, like breaking up with Eliza, he couldn’t keep disappointing these people that he loved. There was no winning, here, he either did a speech and had half a shot or didn’t and threw away his shot. What was he even meant to talk about? Lafayette’s incredible ability to throw away god damn leftovers and pretend he didn’t know a lick of English? A fond smile pushes onto his face, moving worry out the way. Perhaps that’s exactly what he should write about. 

“Hamilton?”

“Oh, look, my headaches back again,” he groans, witty response falling from his mouth without a second thought, rubbing his temples and leaning back into his chair, knowing one day he’d have disgusting posture and back pain but that was a future Alex issue. 

“Lovely to see you, too, dickwad. Whatever you’re sulking over can wait, we have four days to put together a decent plan like Washington asked of and you’re obviously not planning on coming back to my office for the seventh time to do so.” Red glows at the top of Alex’s ears (just because he had been counting didn’t mean it was okay that Jefferson had too) and he pulls out a new piece of paper and pen.

“Fine. What company did you have in mind to take over?” Jefferson smirked, a loose almost threatening gesture and Alex freezes where his pen is mere milliseconds from meeting the paper. “What? What’s so funny?” 

“Well, just to start you’re asking for my opinion. I mean, that’s got to be the first time since ever, doesn’t it?” Tense silence, as Alex tried to think of a time he’d asked Jefferson for anything when he remembers a pen with perfect trajectory that was still in his drawer, next to his personal project. ‘An Age of Enlightenment: the Worth of the Human Being’, something he’d started editing just before the promotion and now he was invested. Editing with that pen, because it made him relax and pretend the whole company didn’t ride on his shoulders. “And I know exactly what we can absorb, and you’re going to love it.” Alex got the impression he certainly would not. “King George Third, Royal Publishing.” He leans back, all smug in his chair and Alex almost jumps over the table to throttle him just for looking so good. 

“Are you out of your GODDAMN mind?” 

“That company owns the rights to hundreds of publishing companies. We take it down and absorb their main HQ then we get a huge boost, Hamilton. I ran the numbers while you were twiddling your thumbs and overall our profits would go up by twenty percent.” If this had been a meeting Jefferson would have gotten the vote through numbers and charts, but this wasn’t a meeting, and Alex really was thinking ‘over my dead body’. 

“Sure, but what if things backfire? The guy that runs that company is insane, Jefferson, and I mean it. Something you are familiar with, I know, but that won’t stop him from fighting back. If things backfire then Washington’s Publishing would sink faster than the titanic.” 

“Titanic actually took a while to sink-“”But they couldn’t save it, could they? The answer is no, in case you’re too dense to know that.” Glaring at one another for what could have been a minute or a whole year, Alex finally sighs and gives, scribbling ‘Royal Publishing’ onto the top of the page. “When this is a royal failure you can get all the credit, trust fund baby.” 

“Coffee boy.” Alex bristles. Jefferson hadn’t called him that in forever, resorting to other insults that were softer and simpler, instead of remembering what had been and what was now. His stomach curls up. “Now, about the fundraiser?” As if he hadn’t dragged old memories up. “I assume you’ll want complete control over the whole thing?” 

“If by that you mean I’m not letting the rich kid build debt and make it Crayola themed just so he can wear his magenta suit and look like he fits in, then yes.” Jefferson made an angry noise through his nose, leaning further back into his seat, watching Alex very closely. 

“Someone should really teach you to watch your tongue.” Alex’s normally quick tongue recedes in his mouth, sticking to the suddenly dry roof, as that dark look in Jefferson’s eyes takes him over. He places his hands firmly onto his desk but it suddenly feels like a bookshelf, or tile, he cannot place it as he stands, hoping he’s glaring the way he thinks himself to be in his head. 

“Shame. Go draw some charts for your proposal and I’ll plan this fundraiser, yes? Then we can both hold our tongues in respective offices.” 

“Almost like you’re trying to get rid of me, Hamilton,” Alex feels his eyes follow him, across the room, over to his own bookcase (they seemed compulsory in these offices) where ‘In the Courtroom’ sat alone. Becoming Secretary Treasury left no time for actual publishing, being involved in the editing, meeting authors. Still, there was a part of him that was content, and he wonders if going into law or politics would have this satisfaction. It kills him that the answer to one question is the same as another. 

Would Jefferson be there? 

“I wonder why I don’t want you in my office.” 

“Because your dick.” Jefferson says it so casually, waving his hand dismissively, as if he wasn’t BEING a monumental dick like he was every time Alex closed his fucking eyes or tried to get a moment of peace. 

“You’re disgusting.” Jefferson laughed humourlessly, shaking his head as he stood, and Alex watches him all the way to the door. 

“Don’t forget streamers, yeah?” Alex’s stomach twists dangerously at the wink and smirk, something he can’t quite remember, like a dream he couldn’t quite place, but he was so done with Jefferson. 

He pulls out another blank piece of paper (with every intention to start outlining that shitty speech, he swears) and draws a large circle in the middle and labels it ‘Fundraiser Ideas and stuff’. He could leave the speech for a free moment, for when he couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t like he couldn’t do it (of course he could!) but this was more pressing. A whole extra twenty four hours were on that speech than this plan, he had to prioritise, to be smart about this. Avoiding the speech? Psh, no. (Maybe a bit more than a little.) 

————————————

“Fuck you!” Thomas yells loudly as he tosses his phone onto his desk, the dull ‘hung up’ tone still ringing in his head. If he didn’t secure this bloody company then Hamilton would be proved right (over his dead body) and he’d probably lose his job before he got the chance to resign to take this over. Sure, the numbers were all in his favour, but numbers were concrete, human error was not. If Washington had the great idea to get Adams talking to the utter prick then there wasn’t a chance in hell for this whole thing to go through. (Mainly because Adams had no spine and would probably spend the whole time talking about being head of the company for all of two seconds when Washington had the flu.)

“Thomas if Washington hear’s you speaking like that he’ll have your head on his desk for decoration,” James tells his friend, handing him a coffee that burns his tongue all the way down but he doesn’t care. While he never got bad hangovers (and if he did he was always in control) dealing with Hamilton was enough to make him feel like shit all over again. Just thinking of that little weasel-

“If he doesn’t I will. Fucking Hamilton, the nerve of him, telling me I can’t take over Royal Publishing-“ Thomas makes it sound like it’s insane he doesn’t have Hamilton’s approval but James’ mouth falls open. 

“Royal Publishing?” James all but shouts (he never shouts), looking at Thomas as if he was insane which really is not helping. “Thomas, you cannot be serious, that’s like starting a war!” 

“A war with a lot of benefits, besides, people don’t even like the guy that runs it. He walks around calling himself a king, James, a goddamn king. If we try to do something then so will everyone else, please, be on my side for goodness sake, I know this can work,” Thomas cannot help being reduced to begging - if James isn’t going to agree then he’d have to pull out. He valued James’ opinion as much as his own and knew James was always painfully honest. (It went with always doing the right thing.)

“Thomas, be honest with me, why are you doing this?” 

“It boosts our income by twenty percent and-“ 

“No, the real reason. You always have something else going on, especially when it comes to something so big. Spill.” Thomas leant back in his chair, pressing his hands together as if he were praying and putting them out his lips. Telling James would be good, it would make him seem sane, but if things backfired it would make him look like a complete asshole. 

“Look, taking apart his little series of colonies means we become the head of our industry. Washington’s Publishing would RUN the publishing industry.” James pursed his lips, thinking it over, as Thomas wiggled his mouse to light his computer screen back to life. “I ran the numbers. We’d be the biggest company in the world, James, no exaggeration.” He twists the screen James’ way as if he cares about the numbers (he doesn’t). 

“Thomas, this is a lot. If Hamilton doesn’t agree then Washington...” 

Thomas groaned. It had happened overnight, Hamilton winding Washington around his little pinkie finger. Thomas hadn’t seen it at first, their affection toward one another, but somewhere along the way Hamilton’s rants stopped getting interrupted by Washington watching the time, Hamilton could be so comfortable. Jealousy coursed through his veins every time he saw that little rat cozy up to a man he had known almost all his life, watch Washington be sympathetic. Fatherly, like he had never been to Thomas. Under different circumstances he wouldn’t have cared so much, if it had been Adams (which is wrong but he liked having the high ground), but the fact it was Hamilton following Washington around, Hamilton hanging on his every word, and getting the same in return. Respect, mutual bloody respect, sat between them and it made Thomas feel like he’d been set aside. Hamilton was the golden boy, now, filled the spot Thomas loved sitting in. 

Washington’s right hand man. 

“We can get Hamilton to agree. He’s not unreasonable, Jemmy.” 

“Wasn’t it you screaming he was unreasonable at him the other day because he funded Ms. Schuyler’s project?” 

“No.” (Yes, but that isn’t the point.) “Look, we can get this sorted out, a couple of charts and Hamilton will be in our lap,” James cringed away from the analogy but Thomas couldn’t stop to think about Hamilton in his lap. “And with you on my side he’ll have to-“ 

“Sorry? No, this is your project. I’m not entertaining your whole idea because I’m a part of it. Not being a messenger boy again.” James says it with finality, cannot believe he was almost dragged into their dance again. 

“James,” Thomas whined. “Please, please, I can’t stand him and he can’t stand me, you make us peaceful.” 

“No. Besides, didn’t it ever strike you I’m busy too?” 

“You’re not just my sidekick best friend?” James laughs, shaking his head and turning the screen back to Thomas. “You do agree, don’t you?” 

“It’s a smart plan, yes. But you have to get Hamilton on your side, then you can start doing things.” 

“Why did Washington give that gremlin so much power? He was hired for like two weeks, James. Two.” 

“I know, I know, you have said only one million times.” Thomas was extremely upset about the whole ordeal, though there had been a level of relief knowing the only person who could take Hamilton down was Washington. Even back then their bond had been one to take notice of, Thomas had known Washington wasn’t about to put Hamilton into harms way for a harsh, impulsive comment. (At least, that’s what he told himself.) “You need to stop being mad. Hamilton does his work well, and we’re not sat on a pile of debt like when Adams ran that shit show.” Of course James was right (he wasn’t often wrong in areas Thomas’ feelings got in the way) which also meant he would have to get Hamilton on his side. 

“Okay, okay, you’re right, you’re right. Don’t rub it in, James. Doesn’t mean I like this any more.” James gave him a self-satisfied smirk before heading for the door, probably to go find Burr in his cocky victory. “James?” 

“Yes, Thomas?” 

“Did he at least return the stapler?” James laughed.

“What do you think?” 

“That dick face.” 

When eight o’clock rolls around Thomas sighs, runs a hand over his jaw and flicks off the computer despite knowing his mind will keep ticking over the information. If he’s going to win over Hamilton he needs concrete proof (facts and figures get the caffeine addict going) but it was difficult to put together. Walking down the corridor, flicking off left-on lights as he goes, opening up Hamilton’s office as the light beams out from under the door. ‘Alexander Hamilton’ is printed onto a silver plague, in the same familiar font that goes onto every plague on every floor, expect the whole name says something bolder, somehow. Turning off the light, Thomas turns to go again when there’s a loud groaning noise, someone waking back up, followed by a line of curses. 

“What the actual fuck-“ Thomas flips the light switch and watches Hamilton sit up, blinking against the harsh light, trying to find whoever is messing with the light and frowning when he focuses on Thomas. “For goodness sake, whatever it is bugger off. I’m on a break, can’t you see that?” 

“Everyone’s gone home, Hamilton. Maybe you should too.”

“No, I have to write this stupid speech or Lafayette is gonna chop off my dick or whatever.”

“You still haven’t?” Thomas leans against the doorframe, folding his arms and cocking his eyebrow, feeling better already. “Oh, poor baby, struggling with a little speech,” Thomas coos, feeling quite glad he didn’t have to give a speech (speaking in public makes him sick) and equally glad Hamilton is struggling. Anything to brighten his day a little. 

“Go away, I can’t deal with you right now. I have to write at least fifteen minutes worth of material and all I can think about is the time he threw my pasta in the bin.” 

“Pasta?” Thomas repeats, just to make sure he’s certain on Hamilton’s pettiness, when the little man drops his head from his hands (loudly) onto the desk. 

“It’s awful, isn’t it? I knew it.” He screws up the paper in front of him and tosses it toward a waste paper basket with paper everywhere but inside of it. “Why couldn’t he ask me to talk about budgeting, or the politics in gay marriage? I’m bad at sentimental.” 

“Evidently.”Thomas has always noted (in a completely ‘oh’ way not in a pointedly noticing way, he wasn’t creepy like that) that Hamilton’s only item of sentimental value in here was Washington’s own book that sat lonely on a decent bookcase. No photos scattered across the desk, no little trinkets on his shelves, it was all quite plain, but somehow Hamilton had made it so certainly his. Something you couldn’t name, or take away, something that just told you all about the little man in his big chair. Something distinctly Hamilton. Like no one else could sit in that chair or use that desk (which was stupid because someone had before) because it belonged to Hamilton’s very being. That’s what he gets for being a workaholic, Thomas guesses. 

“Shut up. You have one friend, ass-wipe, what do you know about being sentimental?” 

“Sentiment keeps you weak, Hamilton. Don’t need it.” Hamilton thinks this over as if considering something before shaking it away, pony tail bouncing shoulder to shoulder. “Look, I’ve got places to be, so am I holding the elevator or not?” 

“I’ll be there in a moment, let me shut things off.” Thomas turns off the light on his way out and listens to Hamilton fumble in the darkness, loudly stubbing his toe, and smiles to himself. 

At least they weren’t yelling. 

————————————

Awkward tension swells in the elevator. 

Alexander isn’t sure why he hasn’t managed to get someone out to sort out this goddamn elevator (it needed something done to it) but everyone was willing for the fix but unwilling to reduce spending. Which means they’re in for five awkward minutes of descent in a confined space, arch enemies who’s tension is growing quite sexual and neither of them willing to admit that. So, instead of facing the problem (like adults), Alex looks into the mirror and wipes at a smudge mark with his sleeve as if he even cared. What was the point in the mirror anyway, it wasn’t like any sane person looked into it when they went wherever they were going. Seemed a real waste to Alex, something meant to look fancy, despite the fact the elevator was disgustingly bad at its job. At least it looked good doing it. Now who did that remind him of... 

Alex glances up, Jefferson’s face set in boredom, watching the doors that stayed firmly closed as the arrow above them moved slowly right. It would be better if they were arguing, or if Jefferson was reminding him of how unimportant he was so he could shout back about the south and his stupid, stupid face. Of course the prick had to take the high ground, of course he would, he was always trying to one up Alex! (He wasn’t, he really just wanted to go home.) 

“How’s making sense of your half of the plan?” He asks, leaning back against the mirror, crossing his ankles and folding his arms as Jefferson’s eyes flick over to where he’s lounging. 

“Fine. How’s planning the party?” Alex huffed, loudly. (Why did everyone call fundraisers parties? They really weren’t the same thing.) 

“Practically finished.” 

More tense silence. 

“Does it have a theme?” Alex pursed his lips, debating sharing. He liked shocking Jefferson, but this wasn’t exactly going to make his mouth fall open. “Assuming you didn’t go with ‘Crayola’?” He does dramatic air quotes, relaxing visibly and Alex wonders why it feels good Jefferson feels he can be relaxed around him.

“I’m still choosing. Trying to make it publishing-friendly, you know? And before you say ‘just go book themed’ I don’t need to remind you of how embarrassing it would be to recycle an idea like that. We aren’t desperate.” Jefferson licked his lips and Alex looked away, venom dripping from his thoughts (Jefferson has to be doing that on purpose). 

“I may not be, but you sure act like you are.” Alex opens his mouth, makes a high-pitched angry noise, glaring up at the cocky giant and wishing he was still in his office, pretending to write a speech. “Why can’t we go classic black-tie event? Simple and easy, perfect for you, Hamilton.”  
“Black-tie doesn’t bring people in, we need something big. You know, Washington would be willing to go if you did...” Alex is shocked by the shock that appears on Jefferson’s face, too abrupt to mask, both of them looking on with wide eyes. “What? He values your opinion you know.” Jefferson makes a disbelieving sound and returns to staring at the doors. “I’m being serious, Jefferson. If we get Washington there black-tie might just make it, they’d be too busy shaking his hand.” Repulse writes itself across his perfect face as the elevator ding rings around them. 

“Fundraising events are below me, Hamilton.” 

“Yet karaoke bars aren’t? Grow a pair, Jefferson, these are esteemed events. Show up for five minutes and maybe people would actually call you something other than an anti-social creep.” Jefferson rounds on his heel, hand wrapping around Alexander’s tie, eyes dark and full of warning, like they always seem to be. Alex’s heart flutters in response, jumping around at the closeness, the contact. Moments pass of heavy breathing and staring, when the grip loosens but does not go away, doors open to reveal the empty lobby. 

“For your information, Hamilton, nothing can be called ‘esteemed’ when it’s run by you. And I actually have social anxiety, so suck my dick.” Jefferson lets go and flounces toward the door. It takes too long for things to sink in (Alex really shouldn’t be thinking about sucking Jefferson’s dick when told to in insult but he can’t help it) jumping out the elevator and running after Jefferson. He grasps that perfectly tailored suit sleeve. 

“You have what? You’re Washington’s Secretary of State - that’s insane!” Jefferson pulls a face, something like ‘no duh’ and ‘I know’, shaking Alex off and readjusting his cuffs. 

“Well, not all of us sit around whining.” He nods, curtly, making it obvious he’s talking about Alex before pushing through the revolving doors. Alex clutches the strap of his satchel, the empty lobby seems to echo his thoughts round and round (‘social anxiety’, ‘suck my dick’, ‘sit around whining’) before shaking it away. Waving his hand as if it can dispel any thoughts of Jefferson being anything other than a massive asshole with his head so far up said ass he couldn’t even consider being a decent human being. 

Still, he’d had a point with black-tie. Something simple, yet sophisticated, reflected exactly what Washington (and the company) liked to portray to the public, so it had some ground to it. Alex hadn’t even given black-tie a second thought, thinking it too plain and ‘been there done that’ but if he was smart about it then it could get a lot of air. Except, that meant talking to the Content Manager and his whole shitshow of a team. (Really, fuck Charles Lee, he couldn’t even boot up a computer without having his hand held by interns, fucking INTERNS.) So perhaps a new idea that climbed the grapevine without media coverage was a better solution than speaking to Lee (everything was better than speaking to Lee). 

But, he reminds himself as he pushes through the revolving door and watches Jefferson’s stupid fancy car purr down the road, he didn’t have any ideas like that. Was he really gonna give the bastard that satisfaction, of being right? Sure, he could sell it as his idea to everyone else, but Jefferson would know. Would taunt him about it. Unless, well, he could always kill him with honesty, announce the idea as Jefferson’s then, then HE would have to deal with Lee. Or would that mess with that social anxiety thing? God, why did he care? 

It was a good idea, from a (dubiously) good person. 

There, he’d admitted that. Now all he had to do was expand on it, make it happen, sell it to a room full of people who loved to hate him. 

He’s about to head down the stairs to the subway, feeling quite good about himself, when there’s the blare of a horn behind him. Not only does he jump out his skin, but he whips his head around despite knowing how embarrassing it was going to be when it wasn’t aimed at him. Human curiosity called him to look, the midnight blue expensive piece of crap almost invisible, and he rolls his eyes to see Jefferson staring into his soul. When their eyes meet the asshole waves him over and Alex has no choice but to head to the rolled down passenger window. 

“Yes?” 

“You’re really taking the subway?” As if Alexander had been lying about his poor-person habits. 

“What does it matter to you, again? Cause I forgot the part where you were meant to give a fuck.” Jefferson leant over and pushed open the door into Alexander’s chest, Alex catches the small smile on his stupid face as he makes a pained noise. 

“We work together, Hamilton. I’d like not to have your death on my conscience. Now get in.” His commanding tone makes Alex’s knees weka before he remembers this is JEFFERSON. 

“What? No! I don’t need you to-“ treat me like a charity case.’ Except, Jefferson wasn’t looking at him like a damsel in distress, like someone who needed charity, something like worry is in his eyes. It disappears suddenly. 

“Jesus Christ, Hamilton, get in this car right now or so help me God I’ll drag you in here by your precious hair.” Alex’s hand goes to his hair (tied in a sloppy, sleep-ruined bun) before deciding he didn’t really want to argue about a overall kind gesture (threats weren’t cool). 

Inside is still pristine, smells brand new even though he’s seen Jefferson driving this thing around since his coffee-boy days, there isn’t any take-out rubbish in the footwell or empty cups in the cup holders. Pulling on his seatbelt, he finds himself looking for something familiar outside of the basics, a mess somewhere, chaos for a glovebox, (even backseats would do) things he’d grown to think were just part of a car. Nothing. Being driven around in here was like driving around in a castle after being driven around in a thatched hut. He reaches out, runs his hand over the smooth dashboard and yelps loudly when Jefferson slaps his hand away. 

“Don’t touch her.” His words are as sharp as the slap. 

“Her?” Alex repeats, watching Jefferson’s fingers flex around the wheel. 

“Where to, Hamilton?” He deflects the question, pulling them into ongoing traffic. 

“Oh, right, my address. Um, here, I have it-“ 

“You don’t know your own address?” Jefferson sighs, hitting his head on the wheel so the horn makes a short noise. The driver in front of them flips them the bird without twisting his head, motioning at the bright red light. “You’re like an actual child, Hamilton.” 

“No, no, I just forget, okay? I don’t go around sharing it with people, jeez. Besides, you’ve been there before. Why don’t you remember?” 

“Because I’m not actively remembering where you live? My life doesn’t revolve around you, you know. Besides, how do you get post?” 

“I don’t get post...?” 

“Jesus Christ. Don’t you get letters from your friends in the, whats’-its-face? Caribbean?” 

“Friends?” Alex shakes his head, pulling up his photos and shoving the screenshot of the maps app, handing it over to Jefferson who glances down for a second before nodding, flicking the indicator. 

“You’re telling me no one from wherever-“ 

“Nevis.” 

“-doesn’t miss your loud mouth? Don’t you miss them?” 

“Um, they actually wanted me gone so bad they made me come here.” Jefferson sighed as they pulled down a quiet road. 

“I can sympathise.” Alex hits him, in a friendly way, before he can stop himself (it’s John’s favourite joke) and instantly freezes as Jefferson looks at him, eyebrow raised, bemused smile on his perfect face. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Alex cannot explain why his cheeks flare as if Jefferson has just told him he’s the prettiest girl in the world but they do. The car purrs and Alex recognises the street of apartment buildings. 

“I... yeah. I’ve been told that once or twice.” For the first time in forever they sit in easy silence, something like friendship between them, keeping them from eating each other alive. “This ones mine,” he points, voice gentle like he’s never used on Jefferson before. “And, well, thank you. Really. You’re not all bad, huh?” 

“Careful Hamilton, I might get the idea you like me.” Jefferson turns his head as Alex leans his head back into the car, cold air pouring in and hot air out. 

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Alex asks before he can convince himself to not act on impulse for once and Jefferson’s eyes soften around the edges. A moment happens, undeniable, where Alex’s heart speeds up and he thinks about getting back into the car and driving away with Thomas in the drivers seat. Holding hands over the gearstick, forgetting they hated each other, changing their names, living a life that they couldn’t. Shouldn’t. 

And, ultimately, wouldn’t. 

“Goodnight, Alexander,” Thomas coaxes, tilting his head toward the life waiting for Alex inside, up flights of stairs, a world where he was lonely despite being so loved, a world that was making him write a speech that would ruin a perfect wedding. But, it was the real world. Not the fantasy, the want, the craved idea he carved into this moment that would haunt him. A what-if. What if he had gotten back into the car? Would Thomas drive away or tell him to get out? “Go on, move it before you catch pneumonia and blame it all on me.” Back to the snark then. 

So he’d never know. 

“See you tomorrow, Thomas.” They shared a final nod before Alex approached the door, digging out his key and jamming it into the hole, twisting it to try and find that one spot that meant the door opens. He could feel dark eyes on him all the while and when he looks back to take out his key Thomas is still sat there, watching. He waves stiffly before shutting the door. 

“I waved, Peggy. I fucking waved!” Peggy held his hand to show she was listening as the other hand shoved marshmallows into her mouth. Alex groaned and leant back onto his bed, rubbing his face. “This is so embarrassing, Peggy. There’s something there, I know it, but I’m too much of a wimp to just do something about it. Why won’t he do something? I’m a receiver not a giver!” 

“And how’s he meant to know that? Your whole job rotates around giving things to people, ‘Lex.” She had a point, though he hated it. Nothing he did really expressed what he was like on the inside, though normally that was supposed to be a good thing. He pulls his hand from hers and smothers himself with his worn pillow and screams. 

“Heya you two, Lafayette is talking about the wedding again and needs you... is Alex okay?” Alex can hear the frown in John’s voice and he makes another loud, worn out noise into his poor pillow. 

“He’s being sad about his loneliness.” She places a hand on his knee and he doesn’t need to see the pity on her face to know it’s there. “Again.” She adds, squeezing his knee very pointedly. 

“What about? The fact he never leaves this good for nothing room. How many cups Alex? Jesus, no wonder I can’t find any,” John pokes him in the ribs on his way to the crowded bedside table that’s housing more cups than the cupboard in the kitchen. It was something Alex had grown quite proud of lately, which alone showed his pitiful state. “Come on, you gotta look presentable for Laf or he’ll flip his shit.” True. Lafayette had had a full blown meltdown the other day when Eliza chipped her freshly done nails. Hercules had pulled him away, mouthing ‘sorry’ only a hundred times, promising it was just stress, that Lafayette hadn’t gone insane (despite looking quite wounded at the thought Laf was going insane at the thought of marrying him). Of course they all knew that Lafayette couldn’t be happier to marry Hercules but he’d also developed an unhealthy obsession with the perfect wedding. 

Hence, a whole load of speech-avoidance. 

“Don’ wanna,” he mumbles into the feathers before it’s ripped away from him by John’s powerful hand, battering him in the face twice. 

“Come on Alex. Now. Before Lafayette comes and rips off your dick.” Hands grasp his ankles and he screams like a girl as they drag him off the bed, toward the door and impending speech-talk. 

“Alex, you’re gonna hit your head,” Peggy warns, though she doesn’t stop pulling as he dangerously approaches the end of the bed. 

“Then stop pulling!” He whines, grabbing hard onto his sheets, feeling them slowly pry off the corners of his mattress. “I can’t do wedding and happiness right now. Please, guys, I beg, I really- bwah!” Alex groans, as he hits the floor face first, hand flying to his nose as he moans in pain, wiggling to try and escape the grasp. “Please, no, no, no!” He tries to dig his fingers into the floor but the issue with well-mopped floors is that there is no friction. 

“Alexander? Why are you on floor? What is this?” There’s a scuffle as Peggy and John drop his legs (his poor knees) to jump onto the couch and no longer be associated with Alex. “John says avoiding. Why avoiding? Get up!” Alex has never gotten up so fast in his life, standing to attention as Lafayette looks him up and down. “Normally your sad state need comfort, but my wedding! My wedding, Alex!” Alex droops, feeling like shit. Lafayette was always so understanding, always the shoulder to cry on, yet Alex couldn’t get his shit together for his best friend for his special day. The Special Day. 

“I know, I know. It’s just... right, Laf, this really cool guy dropped me home today in his car and you know how you’re meant to be cool when they leave?” Lafayette’s folded arms loosened, eyebrow cocking, interest obviously piqued. He nodded. “Yeah, well, I waved.” For the first time in forever Lafayette laughed, loudly, arms dropping to his side to clutch them as he laughed. 

“Waving! Say, Alex, hope you weren’t expecting a second date, you poor thing. Have neglected you, yes?” He rubbed Alex’s arms in that comforting way he always did and it seemed Lafayette’s mind had moved away from what was wrong with the wedding and what was wrong with Alex. “Let’s relax? All of us. Especially you, Alex. Movie, popcorn, yes?” Everyone appeared around Lafayette, hands in prayer, pleading he just say yes no matter what he thought. 

“You know what, Laf. Yes, that’d be nice.” 

“You deserve break. You’ve done so much, plan, suit, speech.” Laf’s smile grew with each word, as if the thought Alex had things under control banished the fact things could spiral. Alex’s grin spreads too thin. 

“Yeah. Yeah, a break. Because I did all that. Totally.” 

“Ocean’s Eleven? Yes? With the George Clooney? He’s cute.” They all fell onto the couch, Alex slid in between Peggy and Lafayette. Peggy squeezes his arm, giving him a pointed smile, spread just as thinly. 

“Yeah. Because you did all that.” 

————————————

Thomas would honestly rather pull his own eyeballs out than be sat on his vintage couch watching Burr and James exchange tongues. Yet, here he was, something stupid on the TV, trying very hard to ignore the disgusting wet noises coming mere inches away. He pulls his foot closer to his body when something brushes against it and wishes he hadn’t agreed to a ‘get along evening’ when he was drunk and willing to do anything to get James to forgive him for calling Burr a ‘pig faced nobody’ which was honestly quite kind. So now every Tuesday he sat through their disgusting display of affection in the dark with the TV blaring, wishing he was anywhere else than here. 

It was times like these he thought of running back to Monticello. Hiding away in his room, just being, in a big house where people knew when to leave him alone and when he needed something. A whole other world of laying back and barely lifting a finger. The world he had ran from suddenly seemed like a paradise, he would do anything to sit doing nothing, and Alexander would be there and he’d-

Thomas sits up straighter, catching the thought before it can bear fruit. Hamilton wouldn’t be there, that ruined the whole point of going home to relax - didn’t it? That kid was a walking headache, made his life a living hell, yet, when he caught his smile when he was joking with Peggy, or that easy-going-guy posture in the coffee shop with his friends, he wasn’t devil spawn. He was so, painfully, human. A human Thomas’ heart picked up for, raced for, that made him feel like he was coming to life all over again. 

God, what would she think?

He’d been in denial with her, too, for about a week or so. One morning, an English lecture, she appeared in the doorway with a smile, books clutched to her chest, his heart had leapt. Jumped around inside his chest and he’d tried to slow it, but when they met eyes that Friday as he suffered through talking through some stupid project, there was no denying it. He’d stopped halfway through, to stare breathless at her (god, those eyes...), before stuttering back into action. Afterward she’d nudged him and asked why he was such a dork. Love at first sight didn’t quite cover the love he had for her, like soulmates, like there could never be anyone else. Yet, here ‘anyone else’ was. Fucking Hamilton, of all people. 

He had eyes, so he could see the appeal. 

When the bags under his eyes shrunk and he let himself be fuelled on something other than caffeine he looked alive enough to be pretty. Hair falling into his eyes, twiddling his pen, grinning that condescending bloody grin as he prepared to tear you apart. Sucking on the end of his pen... Yes, there was a level of appeal to Hamilton when he looked less like a zombie and more like someone you’d ask on a date as giggling friends pushed you to him. But Thomas saw Hamilton as the zombie so much more (he obviously had priorities) and he still had that feeling of undeniable attraction to him. The kind that made your heart race, the kind that made you want to bend him over his own goddamn self righteous desk and just- 

The TV shuts off and plunges the room into darkness as Thomas’ knee presses hard into the rubber buttons. He yelps, withdrawing from the hard plastic, terrified he’s touched something he would rather die than touch. It takes a minute but James (ever sensible) flicks on the lights, all three of them recoiling from the bright light. Thomas holds up the remote. 

“My bad?” James shakes his head and smiles checking his watch (some stupid gift for a one month anniversary, as if one month meant anything in the grand scheme of everything) and frowning. 

“Me and Aaron really should go, it’s getting late.” Thomas has never been happier for James to go, nodding and ushering them both to the door with barely the time to grab their coats. “Oh, Thomas, before I forget, your suit for this wedding thing got delivered to mine. Wait right here.” James went down the stairs after Aaron and Thomas leans against the doorframe and sighs. He knew there had been a mix up but still couldn’t believe that they kept mixing up their addresses. They were two very different people, thank you very much. 

James never had magenta dry cleaned. 

Thomas takes the plastic bag with a tight smile (anyone who can’t afford fabric is way below him) and James reads him like a book. 

“Thomas, for goodness sake, this is for your friend. Be nice.” Thomas smiles and shuts the door on James’ disapproval, tossing the suit onto his couch and rubbing his face, downing a glass of water. 

Emptiness here wasn’t the same, either. At Monticello he could walk the whole grounds for hours and convince himself someone was there and they didn’t bump into each other because, well, his elaborate planning. Here, there wasn’t a chance in hell you weren’t alone if you didn’t find someone in five minutes. Which, on one level, was quite comforting (no serial killers here) but also meant he got lonely quicker, which wasn’t great. What exactly was he meant to do? He couldn’t resign from his position until this stupid plan went through and Washington told everyone he was stepping down. (A secret entrusted to Thomas in vagueness.) Just remember, he told himself, soon enough you’ll be snotty nosed Hamilton’s boss. (Who hell could possibly get the job?) 

Less and less comfort was drawing from that, though. 

God, they had had a stupid Disney kind of moment back there, something so predictable yet he hadn’t been able to process if he was meant to beg Alexander to run away with him to Iceland or sit there looking cool. Still, watching his little cute wave, that smile, knowing he’d put it there, was like someone had lit a cartoon campfire in his chest. Warm, comforting, no way on earth fire had any chance of being dangerous. Except, with fire came smoke. 

Martha. 

Attraction to Hamilton was like destroying her whole image, her place in his heart, the love he still had for her. If she walked in the door, now, he’d fall and kiss the floor at her feet as if nothing had ever changed. Would his lust for Hamilton go away, if she were here? Would they even be happy? His phone buzzes against his thigh and he’s muttering to himself already about ‘not now, James, I’m having a bit of a crisis’ when he sees who it is.

Hamilton. 

What on earth was he using a number he’d given so long ago, one they hadn’t used since the big change?

Hamilton - hey so u know it’s Lafayette’s wedding on Saturday?   
Hamilton - need u 2 help me 2 write the speech  
Hamilton - my life is in danger

Jefferson - I’m sorry?   
Jefferson - why are you asking me? 

Hamilton - shit, ur not John   
Hamilton - sorry for disturbing ur evening 

Jefferson - Don’t you live with John?

Hamilton - ye, but Laf has ears everywhere lately 

Jefferson - you weirdo

Hamilton - youre weird! punctuation and capitals? barf

Jefferson - OK then. 

Hamilton - why the need for full stop

Jefferson - Why no question mark? 

Hamilton - seeing as I have ur attention, what would u put in a speech for Laf

Jefferson - Stories about France? I don’t know. I’m not doing a speech. 

Hamilton - is it bc ur social thing?

‘Social thing’. God, he really was a child, wasn’t he? Except, he had been listening, paying attention close enough to link two and two to get four. Lafayette had approached Thomas as wedding planning picked up about the idea of him saying a few words, as a dear friend and one of the only people that knew Lafayette in his birth place. Thomas had politely declined and Lafayette had understood, saying around the same thing ‘the social anxiety, yes, makes speech making hard, je suis desole, mon ami’. It had been a good moment between old friends, Lafayette tapping his arm, saying they could always squeeze in a moment for Thomas to share only good things about France. Thomas had made a joke about he and Lafayette going out and getting high that one time and received a swat. 

Not unlike the one Hamilton had given him in the car. 

Except, being touched by Hamilton was very, very different than being touched by Lafayette. 

Jefferson - Yeah

Hamilton - ok well see u tomorrow

Awkward conversation ending. God, he hated texting. At least in person you could walk off visibly, being left on read was like hell yet adding onto a dead talk was worse, somehow. Part of him was also yearning to keep talking to Hamilton, just talking, he didn’t care about what. Wanted Hamilton’s attention. 

He put his phone onto the kitchen island where he leaves it to go to bed. 

And he wonders if Alexander feels like this, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! There nearly wasn’t a chapter today! Can you imagine!?   
> Your comments actually make my day no lie :)   
> Also I hope this one was a good length? It was originally two chapters so...   
> have a great day!!!


	4. Chapter 4

Alex looks in the mirror with a sigh, pulling the front of his shirt in to hide the fingerprints dancing across his waist. He had always bruised easily, but this was just absurd. Jefferson’s touch was actually pressed into his skin, for anyone to see. 

He pretends to hate it. 

At the kitchen island John is yawning loudly, weighing up using their ridiculously slow toaster or eating Lafayette’s Weetabix. (Death be damned.) Meanwhile, Lafayette is... otherwise engaged, Alexander had realised in horror when he goes to ask for a tie (really, he should put in a petition for thicker walls) after the Ketchup Accident. So, he slumps on his stool with the coffee pot in his hands, tieless and loveless, wondering where everything went wrong. 

“Dude, you’re bumming me out,” John teases. A couple of months ago it would have been easy to respond with something sexual, even as John became Eliza’s and she his, but these days John’s easy-going attitude was fucking with Alex’s head. (No one should be so relaxed when they had so many obligations.) So all he can manage is a smile, and even that’s awfully difficult. 

“I bum me out, too,” he slurps from the coffee pot, making John cringe and hit him on the shoulder. Alexander is not proud to say drinking out the coffee pot happens more than drinking out a mug these days, but caffeine was his saviour and transferring it from container to container seemed fruitless. That didn’t stop his being yelled at and dragged from bed to have the coffee pot in his face, covered in his fingerprints and empty. (It didn’t need to be said that his roommates weren’t enthusiastic about the pot-to-mouth method.) 

“Could you go do it with Jefferson? I’m trying to eat here,” in response his toast jumps out at surprising speed, making them both jump. John laughs, nudging Alex friendlily and shifting his weight. “Well, that’s my cue.” He’s about to slide away from where he and Alex are pressed against one another when thunder rumbles beyond the open window. Alexander tenses in instant response, trying to ease his muscles at the same time, making him rigid. Rain streaks down the open window, like it has been doing on and off all morning, and Alex balls a shaky hand into a fist. “Oh, shit, it’s hammering down,” John uses this as an excuse to close the window, as if the cold offended him, but Alex knew it was due to his response. (John watches his shaky hand with a worried mother look.) 

Now, it wasn’t like there hasn’t been any thunderstorms since the promotion - because there have been. Too many to count, but every singly one makes Alex flinch and recoil into his stomach in hope to quell the nausea. Yet, every single time had somehow managed to drag his feet into work to darken his magic windows and curl his legs up the most comfortable he could get and pushing. Just, pushing. On those days Jefferson often avoided him, as if Alex’s emotions repulsed him, physically kept him out of sight and out of mind. Which, technically, they didn’t - it seemed not seeing Jefferson made him crave that crazed stupidity even more. What made dragging his twitching self to work on these awful days every time? Even when Washington told him to just go home? The gifts. 

Jefferson never delivered them personally and they were often impersonal, something like an extra shiny apple or an umbrella after seeing each other briefly in the elevator with Alex soaking yet. Liam would knock hesitantly on his door, every little bang making his skin attempt escape, before the assistant poked his head in. 

“Mr Jefferson left this for you,” then Liam would slap a hand over his mouth, blushing, shuffling his feet, gift in his hands. “He didn’t want me to tell you that”, he’d mutter quietly, leaving the small thing on Alex’s desk before departing hurriedly, hoping to escape a scolding. Alex would stare at the small piece of affection wistfully, wondering what it meant that Jefferson knew just what he needed before he did, what it meant that Jefferson seemed to care, before returning to working. (It wasn’t wise to spend too much time on these kind of things, not when his feelings were messy as was.) 

The look on John’s face says he will not be receiving one of these gifts today because he won’t be allowed out the house. Honestly, most days this kind of friendliness was so welcome, when Alex had spent these days alone he’d often been moved to physical sickness. After sitting John, Lafayette and Hercules down to explain that when it poured and thundered that he was often unresponsive, would look sick, they had been so sympathetic. They’d nodded and stroked his hand and told him that they understood. That very same week, when the weather took a turn, Alex had resigned himself to the average hiding-under-the-blankets-with-Netflix method when Lafayette had come and just sat with him. Watched the shitty romcom, brought him a snack, talked about his day. Alex hadn’t realised that through the darkness he could have been comforted. Just Lafayette’s warmth, his presence, his soft laugh, made things seem so much better, somehow. He felt loved. So, no, this friendliness wasn’t unwelcome - quite the opposite - but he had grown used to the indirect approach of Jefferson. Staying home seemed... alien. 

“I’ll get your stuff from the office, already texting Angelica,” he waves his phone between them, as if the blurred blue and grey makes any sense to Alex. “She says you’re working with Jefferson?” John says, that same voice he uses every time Alex becomes vaguely interested in something else with a pulse. (Except that one time he teased Alex about a table from Ikea he got obsessed with but they didn’t often bring that up.) 

“Yeah, I don’t need any fuss. I have my laptop here,” he motions at where he left it open last night when everyone else went to bed in a hope of making an outline to that speech. “And it’s just a bunch of... party planning.” He cringes inwardly. (Fundraisers aren’t parties, he reminds himself, not parties. Why does no one accept that?)   
“Oh yeah, heard all about that. Isn’t that why we were getting pissed the other day?”   
“The very reason.” Alex makes finger guns, slurping away the coffee from the bottom of the pot. “I better email shit face, speaking of him,” Alex tells himself, more than John or the emerging, grinning Hercules. Alex wishes they’d be a bit more subtle about the fact they fucked, like Eliza and John. (The fact they fail at it miserably doesn’t really matter - its the thought that counts.) 

“I thought you wanted to kiss that shit face?” John coos, making kiss-y faces at Alex across the table, mouth full of toast as Hercules tries to find the frying pan. 

“Which shit face are we on about now?” Hercules asks from the cupboard, where he will not find the frying pan because Alex can see the handle poking out the sink. (He won’t bring it up because it was his turn to do the dishes last night.) “You, Maria or Jefferson?” 

“Ah, he’s over me and Maria, Hercules. If you weren’t buried so deep in Lafayette maybe you’d know that.” Hercules laughs, haven giving up trying to find the traditional frying pan and pulling out a shallow pan to make eggs in instead. So casual about the fact he slept with the love of his life so easily. It makes Alex inexplicably mad.   
“Coming from you. Which, on a TOTALLY other note, Alex I’d avoid the couch until Lafayette has it burned,” John laughs back, running hands through his hair and shaking his head. Another sex-with-soulmate-is-normal guy. Alexander’s fist buries crescent moons into his palm. 

“What? But I was there,” Alex points at his seat of the dining table, trying to play along with the stream of conversation and get to the bottom of this. “And we certainly weren’t sat on any of that when we were watching the telly,” his voice is hopeful if anything else. 

“Oh no, three in the morning, ‘Lex. Three.” John shrugs and Alex cannot help wondering if John’s libido likes three in the morning. (That seems the wrong thing to say though.) “At least me and Laf fuck at reasonable hours, now anyway. I assume shit face is officially Jefferson’s title?” John salutes in agreement, throwing his satchel over his shoulder and pulling shoes from out the messily assembled shoe cupboard. (Hercules thought it had been a good idea, once.)

“See you losers later. Also you owe me Herc. This is your shift I’m taking,” Hercules bows to John as he leaves, before popping his head back in for a moment. “Do not let Alex leave the house.” Almost in response lightning splinters the sky and Alex trips over his own feet. Hercules laughs affectionately. 

“I got you. Alex, you heard the man.” Hercules says it softly, as if Alex could shatter like glass. 

“Yeah, much to my hate!” He shouts after John, through the closed door and down the stairs. 

Alex sulks at the table, because the apples here were not the same. 

————————————

Thomas notices Hamilton’s absence almost immediately. 

During that morning’s catch up his annoyingly high pitched opinion had not been all that missed by anyone but Thomas and James doesn’t understand it. Then again, they often had contrasts in views about people that should be missed and shouldn’t be, or even on who to like. (James obviously had worse taste - he was dating Burr, after all.) 

“I thought you hated him,” James asks from his seat as Thomas pulls away his blinds to look at the weather - just as horrific as the last time he checked thirty seconds ago. Still, it was unlike Hamilton to not be in, even when the sky screamed and his shaking made him all twitchy. (It was vaguely cute, in moderation.)

“I do. Yeah, of course I do,” Thomas drops the blinds and returns to standing in front of his bookcase. “But you know how these things are. Enemies closer?” Explaining these things to James was always impossible - he just didn’t get it. 

“Not close enough to fuck. At least, that’s not traditional,” James bites back, upset he couldn’t be spending lunch with Burr. He’s been making these comments for months, despite Thomas continuously telling him that he was wrong. James had smirked slyly one time, when Hamilton had bested them both, and said Thomas should ‘fuck Hamilton mute’. Thomas had blushed and attempted words before disappearing into his office and wondering why his brain couldn’t move away from the idea. 

“You make me sick,” he says, as affectionately as one can when they hate that their friend is loosely right. (Not that he would ever admit it.) 

“Both you and Hamilton make me sick. Honestly, fuck already, Thomas, save us all a lot of time.” Thomas scoffs and shakes his head, pulling books out by their spine only to push them back into place. Wondering the type of books Hamilton would have been a part of publishing lest he had the choice. “Or, whatever, be all cute. Like me and Aaron...” James trails off dreamily, leaning against his hand, and Thomas cringes away from the idea of James and Burr and their lovey dovey existence. 

“Ew. Gross. That’s my cue.” Thomas knocks on the edge of James’ desk, enough to draw him to attention, stopping at the open door. “Try to get some work in between that daydreaming, lover boy,” James rolls his eyes and waves him away.

Thomas doesn’t know what to do with himself. Most days Hamilton is subject to his ‘rainy day blues’ Thomas stays out his way wondering what could possibly make the small man feel better. Choosing something wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be when the idea first struck. One of the first few times an umbrella had been an obvious choice, what with Hamilton’s obvious lack of one and refusing to share with anyone under fear of being seen as lesser. Then the hollowing of his face on a rainy week made it evident he needed some good old fashioned food in his system, so of course an array of snacks were dropped off. It was only right. Sometimes the guilt Thomas had when he thought of that day when Hamilton was his assistant and he’d been so vicious about the thought of Hamilton being weaker. So, of course, he aims to fix that in every way possible when the moment arises. 

Hamilton doesn’t bring it up, so neither does he. 

Now, sat at his desk, wondering if there’s anything else he can do besides besides make charts and type numbers, the idea of giving to Hamilton is at the forefront of his mind. (Hamilton had shown a love of strawberries...) But he pushes away that thought with ferocity. Types for all of ten seconds before folding his hands beneath his chin and wondering if annoying Seabury would brighten his mood. Despite knowing, of course, it wouldn’t, because Seabury often stood repeating his point until Thomas walked away out of sheer boredom. Why did no one understand how to argue like Hamilton did? This was the exact reason Thomas gave him small gifts, appreciation, that Hamilton had dragged him from the loop of ‘yes sir’, ‘of course sir’, despite his kicking and screaming. 

Except, he knew where Hamilton lived. And a place that did these cute little baskets of strawberries. And he’d mastered the act of ‘knock knock run’ when he was twelve. Unless the stairs were too far away. Or Hamilton wasn’t in. 

It wasn’t worth the stress.

Yet, he finds himself stood over the baskets of strawberries and wondering which one was just the right amount of not-too-full, trying without effort to believe this isn’t for Hamilton. Thomas picks up one, puts it down, checks around the others, before picking it back up again. It would have to do. 

“Who’s the apology for?” The cashier asks conversationally, watching Thomas put down the basket gently as the wind howls against the opening and closing doors. Thomas hates people who feel the need to talk to strangers - could they not just scan and allow him to leave? 

“My, ahem, partner’s not feeling great.” He says, hoping that’s the end of it, when her eyebrows shoot up before she forces them back down. 

“Oh! He likes strawberries?” Thomas almost says ‘no duh’ but cringes at the idea of the face she would give him. At the fact it would haunt him when he attempted sleep. 

“Yes, he does,” he nods, watching her scan the label and tapping his card before she even read the price, uncaring. Whatever it was would be worth it, if only to pull Hamilton out his misery-is-all mindset. 

“Well, I hope he feels better soon. You’re a good boyfriend.” Thomas chokes on air, foot hesitating to meet the ground, whipping around to correct her grave, grave error but cannot. Not only is she with another person (he’d die of embarrassment) but also because it was his fault. Perhaps he’d wanted her to think... no, no, of course not, that was just silly. Wasn’t it?

Thomas returns to the office and decides he cannot go to Hamilton’s. Simply cannot - he had to prove a point to himself. Doesn’t need to validate his feelings for Hamilton - which were only hate, thank you - and strawberries were hardly anything. But every crash and zap reminds him of the pain Hamilton must be feeling, and the strawberries stare at him. He puts them on the couch and leaves them there, attempting work, promising he’d stay, prove a point. 

So how does he find his way to Hamilton’s door during his lunch break with that cute little strawberry basket knocking on the door? 

He bangs harder on the door, staying there with that basket in his hand (the stairs were too far and the elevator out of order) and waits. Listens to the stumbling inside, presuming Hamilton had woken up or something of the sort. Thomas continues to knock. 

“Yes, I’m coming, holy-“ Hamilton throws open the door, looking exasperated and sleep broken, when he takes in who’s stood there. “Jefferson! Hi,” Hamilton shuts the door almost all the way back to hide his pyjamas, blushing violently. “What’re you doing here?” Why are you blushing? Thomas dismisses the question, hoping he’d stop asking question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answers to. 

“I, ahem, strawberries?” He extends a hand, the basket swinging. A smile lights Hamilton’s face. 

“Oh, wow, thank you,” a hand reaches through the crack. “Anything else?” Looking suspicious, glancing into the empty corridor behind Thomas. 

“Nice PJ’s,” Thomas teases, watching the strawberries disappear into the apartment. Hamilton’s face growing the same shed of red. 

“Nice suit.” He responds with curtly, moving his eyes up and down the familiar suit, as if it had changed since the last time Hamilton saw it. “You know, magenta doesn’t suit you.” Thomas scoffs, blood boiling. 

“It brings out my eyes you asshole!” 

————————————

Alex laughs, shuffling his feet, swinging the strawberry basket at his side like a little girl going to a picnic. It feels awkwardly romcom. Every time he meets Jefferson’s eyes it feels too romcom. It’s a growing problem. 

“Aren’t going to invite me in?” Jefferson asks, leaning forward against the doorframe, coming alarmingly close. Alexander remembers that he’s practically nude, pulling himself farther into the apartment. 

“Ha, no! Enemies closer, yes, but not that close. I’m hardly dressed!” Jefferson smiles loosely and Alex feels all buttery. 

“Yes, leaves little to the imagination.” Alexander’s mouth falls open in surprise (had Jefferson looked? had Alex wanted him to look?) and shuffles more. “At least tell me you’re doing work while you sit around in those.” 

“Yes, lots, thank you mom. Goodbye,” he waves Jefferson away and, to his surprise, he goes. Thomas Jefferson waltz down the corridor, nodded in a passing goodbye, before ducking down into the stairwell. Alex can imagine him all the way down those stairs as he shuts the door behind him. Steps back into the apartment. He places the strawberries on the table and leaves it there to look at, the label signed with an elegant flourish. 

Jefferson. 

Alexander smiles. 

Thomas Jefferson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh! Hi! I hope you like this chapter. It didn’t originally exist so please don’t hate if it’s badly constructed but I liked the idea Thomas cares about Alex’s mental well-being 🥰  
> Feedback is always welcome! Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Thomas cannot stop grinning.

“Thank to Jefferson’s just... marvellous idea,” Hamilton looked like he was being forced to sit onto a pile of thumb tacks, smiling too widely. God, the second he saw ‘Black Tie’ written in Hamilton’s signature bold font on Hamilton’s silly little slideshow he knew he was in for a treat. “The fundraiser will be a black-tie event. Which also means, Lee, you’ll have to do your job.” Lee pulls a face like he’d rather eat his own tongue than cooperate because he’s a self-obsessed asshole who liked doing jack-shit. “So thank you, Jefferson, for that idea.” Hamilton clears his throat, clicking the remote so the slide shifted to his own actual input. “As you can see I’ve got all the plans here,” he motions at a pie chart behind him with an elegant wave, fingers long and skinny. Thomas doesn’t know why he’s noticing. “Now, over to Jefferson to explain his shitty idea that isn’t going to work.” Polite clapping follows and Washington mutters choice words at Hamilton as he takes his seat. Something about not saying ‘shitty’ in a cabinet meeting. (Nothing new, then, Thomas smiles.)

“Thank you, Hamilton. Though from that I may as well have done this whole meeting?” Laughter dribbled from the seats and Hamilton glowered, handing over the remote and their fingers brush. Hamilton’s glare vanishes and his chest rises quicker, pupils blowing wide and Thomas almost laughs at him. How easily he is affected by a brush. “Now then,” Thomas whips around, remote in hand, flicking up his presentation. “Away from party talk to work talk, let’s get realistic.” So he wouldn’t think about his own reaction, the electricity dancing up his arm because he touched Alexander Hamilton. 

Hamilton, in turn, goes back to glaring. (Always so touchy about his precious fundraisers.) 

“Now, plans for absorption.” He took a breath in attempt to steady himself. “Let’s just get this out the way: King George Royal Publishing.” Washington sits up straighter and shocked outrage fills the room that is impossible to calm, Hamilton has his head in his hands. “Hey, no, look-“ god, why did he have to be so outgoing in planning? It would be easier to say a nowhere company and be done with all of this, without the fuss and his heart pounding violently. 

“No, this is insane. What happened to little, collapsing companies? Sir, let me take over.” Adams begs (anything to have a little power again), giving Thomas the evil eye. It really isn’t helping. 

“Everyone settle down-“ Washington tries, but no one is listening, they demand to be heard as one big, fat, NO. 

“Fuck off Adams,” Hamilton stood. “Everyone shut up!” The room falls into shocked silence and Hamilton clears his throat. “You cannot throw away an idea before you hear it through. Yes it is insane as fuck,” Hamilton glowers at Thomas. “But if something is worth doing it’s worth doing right, yes? So sit back down all of you and pretend to listen or whatever.” Hamilton throws himself back into his seat, arms folded, looking to Thomas (who cannot explain why Hamilton standing up for him is so hot). “Jefferson, go on.”

So he does.

People sit up straighter, they listen closer. 

At the end of it all, holding the door open for Hamilton to slip out under his arm, their plan voted in (barely, but that didn’t matter), they high five. They smile. They weren’t enemies, they weren’t friends, they were just people who had done the impossible and it felt bloody great. It felt like waking on the moon, so surreal, that Thomas suddenly doesn’t care. 

“Thank you, Hamilton.” He’s never thanked Hamilton before. First time for everything, huh? 

“It was a one time thing, Jefferson. You were a real dick.” Thomas scoffs and stands (somehow affectionately) onto Hamilton’s foot. “Besides, I owed you for the strawberries, didn’t I?” Thomas’ stomach twists that Hamilton thought his kindness held some sort of twist. 

“You’re the one that stole my idea.” 

“Can’t be stealing when it’s given, Jefferson.” 

They stand at Hamilton’s door, people milling around, chattering about being insane and the event, when Alexander takes hold of his cuff and pulls him inside. A sudden, easy motion that happens so smoothly it’s like watching it from outside as Alexander pops open the door and drags him inward by a sleeve. Thomas’ heart jumps into frantic action again because surely Alexander isn’t doing this on purpose, he’s forgotten who they are, that they loathe each other more than anything and anyone in the universe. (It makes it easier to pass the excitement off as wicked fear.) 

“Celebrations are in order, yeah?” The little man asks, rooting around in his desk drawers as Thomas stands, dumbstruck, in the middle of the stupid office. Consumed by that distinct Hamilton feeling, the smell of him, the wild nature. “To the impossible plan?” He emerges with a bottle of cheap champagne and Thomas has to laugh. 

“You keep that in your drawer?” There’s no keeping the distaste from his voice as Hamilton puts down two mugs, each plain and boring. Thomas wonders if they’re even clean. 

“Never know when I’ll need it.” He pops the cork and pours the sparkling liquid into the mugs and Thomas shook his head. 

“Real classy, Hamilton.”

“Only the best for my favourite prick.” He offers a mug and Thomas takes it, shaking his head, leaning against the edge of his desk. “To the impossible plan.” Alexander repeats, mug raised slightly. 

“The impossible plan.” Thomas agrees and they sip. Thomas cringes away from the cheap, room temperature taste, watching instead as Alexander drinks it in one long sip, placing the mug back down onto his desk, handle facing him. “This is disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting.” Thomas put the mug down next to Alexander’s, champagne sloshing up against the sides. “You’re tasting the stars, you know, cheap or not.” How many times had he heard that one? Too many, but never quite like this. Never when looking at someone who had stars dancing in his eyes, something different, something new, that vanishes suddenly under his gaze. 

“Cheap stars.” He nods, trying to understand what exactly Hamilton is looking at him with in those eyes. “I should probably get going to announce war with our friend Georgie.” Alexander threw his head back and laughed suddenly, his throat so exposed, hair falling around him and Thomas can’t explain himself when he grabs onto those hips and kisses that neck up and down. The laugh comes to a stop suddenly and for a moment he’s terrified he’s done something wrong, fingers tightening around Alexander’s shirt. 

Then Alexander whimpers, urging him on, and it’s beautiful. 

Alexander’s hands grasp his suit in great fistfuls as he moves his mouth down along the edge of his shirt collar, fumbling with the top button, needing to expose more of Alexander. Faint hickeys from when Thomas marked him just days ago (days? It felt like so much longer) and it makes something possessive in him jump around cheering because no way had anyone missed them. Still, he sucks a new one and delights in the moan Alexander responds with, hands moving up into his hair, the stupid greasy tangles actually quite soft. He could never have imagined. (And, oh, how he had unwilling imagined...)

“Shit, Thomas, should let you have your way more of-TEN,” he shudders as Thomas bites him, gently, watching him arch his back and squirm. Interesting.

“Yes, you should, Alexander,” he agrees into Alexander’s ear, letting his hand fall upon the bulge in the cheap suit trousers, revels in how Alexander shifts upward in a hunt for friction. “Perhaps then I’d be nicer to you.” Alexander makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scoff, but it’s broken when Thomas presses the heel of his palm into Alexander’s erection. 

“L-like I need you being, being nice, Jefferson,” Thomas grins wickedly to himself, taking his hand away and pulling in a testing way on Alexander’s stupidly long hair, watching him whine and shift uncomfortably. 

“Play nice, Alexander.” The little man whimpered but nodded, each movement of his head making the hair in Thomas’ hand taut, but he definitely doesn’t complain. So Alexander Hamilton liked having his hair pulled, he’d like to be shocked, really, he would. “Or maybe I won’t.” More whimpering and squirming in almost agreement and Jesus Christ Alexander is fucking hot like this. 

“You sadistic bastard.” Hamilton hisses through clenched teeth. 

“Don’t be a brat,” Alexander seems to shock them both by making a high pitched noise of complete agreement, couldn’t have said ‘yes’ anymore if he had actually said the word. “For once in your life, behave, Alexander.” 

“Yes, yes, okay, I-“ his voice is broken and soft, like Thomas has never heard before, and it makes him feel powerful. 

“Mr. Hamilton?” They jump so violently they’d probably beat high jump records as the intercom on Hamilton’s shiny desk comes to life. “Ms. Schuyler is here to see you?” Hamilton mutters ‘shit’ under his breath, chest heaving against Thomas’. It’s awkwardly intimate, now they’ve stopped attacking one another with lust. “I’ve told her you’re in a meeting with Mr. Jefferson?” Hamilton clears his throat as Thomas suppresses a laugh, reaching over the desk and pressing a button. 

“Yes, Liam, thank you, could you tell her I’m quite busy at the moment.” 

“Quite busy?” Thomas muses, closing his teeth against Alexander’s earlobe, smirking at the responding noise. 

“She says it’s urgent, sir. She has In’N’Out?” Hamilton mutters under his breath, pulling a hand through his hair and Thomas watches him, leaning back a little in case Alexander chooses greasy food over him. (Cannot believe Alexander is even considering greasy fast food over him.) 

“Okay, okay, send her in. You’re a dick, Peggy.” He adds, obviously knowing her better   
than anyone else. Jealously gnaws at the edge of Thomas’ stomach as Hamilton moves away, sinks into his seat, trying to adjust his suit to hide his erection. Hamilton was choosing Peggy over him? For only the millionth time? “You, I mean, you kind of need to go. She has instincts.” 

“Instincts?” He repeats sceptically, leaning back against the wall. The jealousy widens, a great black hole to all other rational feelings, as he remembers every single time Hamilton has held onto Peggy, kissed her, joked with her, embraced her. 

“Alexander Hamilton!” She bursts in, take out bag in one hand, the other placed firmly on her hip as both doors slam against the wall. “You promised me take out and here I am, buying my own take out, being told by your snotty assistant you’re in a meeting with Thomas Jefferson!” Thomas winces at her yelling, jealousy evaporating as Hamilton recoils, even as the whole thing sounds dangerously like a date. “I mean, hi Jefferson, but Alex, we set the bar on the ground and you’re fucking digging!” Thomas watches Hamilton cringe away from the lashing as she approaches his desk, on a war path. So maybe he wasn’t choosing Peggy over him, just knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t let up. (Probably for the best, who knew what would happen if she had walked in on them.) “Put down the shovel, Alex, and pick up a pen. I promised you till Thursday and it’s Friday. Wedding tomorrow. Hello, wake up and smell the flowers and- look, Jefferson, you’re really throwing me off.” Thomas raises his hands, pulling a face. 

“I’m... sorry?” It’s staged as a question Peggy doesn’t answer, only scowling further and rounding back to Hamilton. 

“What are you even having a meeting for? Your shagging schedule?” Thomas’ heart stops beating in his chest. How could she know? She couldn’t know. That wasn’t possible. Would Hamilton TELL HER? But she retreats from the comment the second Hamilton’s face sets on fire. Thomas’ eyes widen pointedly at Alex, in utter shock, wishing he could have an answer. “Sorry, sorry, boundaries, I know, but I’m a hungry woman, ‘Lex.” Thomas’ open mouth curves into a wolffish grin, watching Hamilton obviously think of killing him. 

“Jefferson, could you leave us alone please?” Hamilton motions at the doors, eyes never leaving Ms. Schuyler’s and he really doesn’t want to be there when this bomb goes off. 

“We’ll finish this later, Hamilton?” He asks at the door and watches Hamilton flush and nod mutely. 

This was going to be fun.

————————————

“Okay, spill whatever is going on right now and maybe I’ll spare your head.” Peggy is not in the mood, Alex knows that, but he doesn’t think he can form a rational sentence if he wanted to. Did Thomas Jefferson just say they’d finish whatever had been happening later? As in, he’d be in close, sexual proximity with a literal god, on purpose? No more accidents? “Hello? Alexander Hamilton I’m not having any of this. There is a wedding tomorrow and if you’ve gone mute I need to know.” 

“No, no, not mute.” He sounds so dazed and far-off, Peggy pulls a face as she perches on the edge of his desk, kicking off her heels. 

“Good, because you got explaining to do, mister.” She pulls her hair over one shoulder, watching him very closely as he shifts in his seat. “I’m waiting, Alex. Lafayette is already jittery, I’m really so done with your shit-“ 

“I think me and Jefferson were about to have sex.” 

Peggy’s mad mum act drops away and her mouth falls open. 

“You what?” She demands. 

Alex wants to make it clear that since he and John ended their perfectly fine agreement so he could date Eliza, he’d found no one. Once you’ve dated all your friends (most of them anyway, Lafayette and Hercules had been together since the dinosaurs) there isn’t really anyone else to turn to because no one else understood Alex. When he went weeks without sleep people didn’t understand, when he missed date night every week for a month they didn’t get that it wasn’t because of them. (Also people liked other people that didn’t see the F word as ‘feelings’ instead of ‘fuck’.) So, after very little effort, he resigned to the ‘alone forever’ mood and never really left it, and when he did only briefly. Only with Jefferson. Which maybe should have raised red flags earlier, except it never really had, even now, seemed like something that you needed warning from. He liked Jefferson, always had, in that twisted way. Everything he stood for, everything he said, it had sound value, except he was a real dick about it. Feelings fought in his head (was he meant to loathe or... like Jefferson?) but he dismisses them because Peggy is staring as if he’s grown another head. 

“Come again? You were about to have sex with who?” Alex bangs his head off the desk, groaning and wishing he could understand what the fuck was going on inside his head. (Absently wishes Thomas was there to shock it into silence like he was so, so good at.) “Alexander Hamilton, I didn’t know you had it in you. So you two are finally a thing now?” That’s enough to throw him back into reality. 

“What? No! God, no, are you insane?” His voice is biting and it shocks him that he means every word. 

“Gee, calm down Alex, normal people are together when they have sex, you know.” 

“No shit, Peggy.” 

“So, Jefferson and Hamilton, then? Pretty sure there are bets on that.” 

“Peggy, be serious.” She shrugs and crosses her legs, fiddling with the pen on Alex’s desk. 

“Okay. Serious.” Her face grows solemn again and Alex decided he would much rather explain in great detail the train wreck that was his love life that what he was about to get yelled at about. “The speech, Alex,” she cracks her knuckles and he sinks deeper into his seat (at least his fear meant his boner goes away) but she only leans over the desk after him. “Alexander, you’ve started it, haven’t you? Gotten it written? A well-detailed outline? Give me something, anything. You have less than twenty four hours to pull this out your ass.” 

“Look, Peggy, I know. I know this is something I should have done months ago but come on, aren’t the best speeches unprepared?” A stab in the dark that is resounded to be a face that said ‘fuck no’. 

“Historically, hell no. Especially with you, ‘Lex.”

So Alexander Hamilton coffee rants weren’t wanted at the wedding of the century - he’d been reminding himself of this every time he tried to write the damn thing. He couldn’t rant, couldn’t indulge, couldn’t go on and on and get lost in himself like he was so well known for. Hundreds of great ideas had come from talking openly (more at himself than anyone else) yet if he did that at Lafayette’s wedding just to try finding something they could make a quote from. Something that they could remember fondly, it wasn’t worth the stress for everyone else. But the speech wouldn’t write, he couldn’t pull it out himself, as badly as he tried, as desperate as he became, he couldn’t write this speech. 

And it made him feel weak. 

“Look, I’ll be up all night if I have to, okay? I will write this speech if it kills me.” 

“Preferably not, Alex. Don’t make yourself look like shit, because then all hope really is lost.” If Alex ruined Lafayette’s wedding photos he really would be dead before he could even cross the threshold. “No pressure, Alex. You’re writing is shitty under pressure. Just, please, Alex, even if its a handful of words, get something to say. For one of your best friends?” It was pointless explaining how hard he had tried to do it, so he nods. “Now then, sex with Mr. Jefferson. This isn’t going to be little nobody gets with big somebody is it?” 

“What? No. We aren’t gonna get together, Peggy.” 

She winked, she smiled. “Crazy things happen at weddings, Alex.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this felt really short I am SOOOO sorry. I got carried away and had to break the chapter up for ✨reasons✨ so I can promise a bigger chapter next update.   
> As always, feedback gives me life, have a great day!


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